


Pardon All My Precious Scars

by romanticallyinept



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Fingering, Angst, Bad Parenting, Biker Clint Barton, Blow Jobs, DOMDROP IS REAL, Dom/sub, Domdrop, Dominant Natasha Romanov, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Gentle Dom Clint Barton, Happy Ending, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, Leather Jackets, Leather Kink, M/M, Motorcycles, Non-Sexual Submission, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Past blackmail, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Professional Dominant Clint Barton, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Sexual Submission, Slow Build, Submissive Pietro Maximoff, Texting, Touch-Starved, how is that not a canonical tag wtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-01-07 00:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18399509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: It's the first time they've been alone, and the kid's on edge. His shoulders are set and his eyes are narrowed and he's got his arms crossed over that broad chest, but he's exuding cockiness, not confidence.“My father says you are the best,” he says, looking Clint up and down. “I do not believe him.”Clint snorts. “He also says you're a Dom,” he says, casually, and slides his hand into one of his gloves, securing the strap. “I'm not all that inclined to believe that, either.”Now complete!





	1. Chapter 1

There's a pile of contract requests six inches deep sitting on his desk when Clint opens the door to his office. He's exhausted, and he knows that it's showing around his eyes and shoulders, in the way he's dragging his feet as he closes the door, and for a moment, he just stands there and looks at the stack, because those are the requests his assistant has already screened and passed to him because he thinks they might be interesting. 

_Six inches._

He flexes his fingers, still sore from the amount of time they've spent clenched around a flogger for the past three weeks. The contract had sounded good in theory, cut and dry, three weeks of instructing a Dominant on the finer points of impact play, and he'd even had the naivety to believe that it would be enjoyable. 

Clint's forte isn't impact play. He specializes in handling, bondage, edging, and overstimulation, and while he's not deficient or inexperienced with impact play, he doesn't lean much towards it naturally, so he doesn't often take contracts that request it. But this one... he'd looked past it on this one, because it had been in California and the heat and beach sounded so good.

What was supposed to be a two-hour daily session on technique had ended up being a more or less 24/7 session on administering punishments and maintaining control via overt displays of dominance. And Clint gets it, gets that everyone has their own style and that every relationship is unique, but three weeks of never getting to see a bruise fade have taken a toll on him, and he's tired. He wants to curl up in his bathtub at home and not touch another striking implement for a good month.

But before he can do that, he has contracts to sort through.

* * *

Clint Barton loves his assistant. He really, really does. He's jet-lagged enough that he forgot to get coffee on the way to the office, but he's barely been sitting there for ten minutes before the guy walks in with a steaming mug of it in one hand and a manila folder in the other. Clint's eyes dart between the two, because the coffee means somewhat clearer thoughts, but the folder means a new contract request, and really, he's not sure if one is worth the other. 

His assistant is a submissive, but here, in the office, he's the one who runs things, and Clint trusts Barnes with his life. More importantly, he trusts him with his business, and really, he should listen to the other man more often, because Bucky had warned him away from the California contract, but had he listened? No, of course not.

And right now, Bucky doesn't look all that amused. “I told you,” he says, setting the coffee down first, and okay, maybe Clint loves him just a little. He wraps his fingers around the hot mug and steels himself for a lecture, but Barnes just sighs and shakes his head a little before holding out the folder. “Here. This just came in yesterday. I was going to suggest it, but you're more wiped than I thought you'd be, so my suggestion is officially changed to 'go the fuck home and get some sleep'.”

Yeah, Bucky Barnes is a submissive, but he's got a spine, and the collar around his neck dictates nothing about how he acts around other Dominants. Even if the collar is a new development.

“You finally agreed to the contract with Rogers, then?”

Barnes ducks his head just a little, and there's a bit of a flush staining his cheeks, and Clint knows that's as close as he's going to get to a typical reaction. “Yeah,” the guy says, a bit gruffly, shrugging one shoulder. “Short thing. Two weeks. Test things out.”

“Uh huh. It's about fucking time, you know that, right? You two have been dancing around each other since the second fucking grade.” Clint pauses. “Congrats, anyway. You're good together. Match up pretty damn perfectly, and that's rare.”

Barnes flashes a grin, all white teeth, and it's predatory in a way that made Clint pin him as a Dom the first time they met. He remains one of the handful of people Clint's characterized incorrectly upon meeting them, and Barnes' good-natured way of never letting him forget it was the basis for the friendship that led to them working together. It's odd, and Clint knows it is, but it works, and if Bucky and Steve, one of the other professional Dominants at the firm, have finally gotten their heads out of their asses, well, he's pretty sure it's going to work even better.

“Steve's _great_ ,” the brunet says, and it's almost a purr, and that voice is a promise of all the gory details that Clint doesn't want to hear (which is a lie, because he does). 

So he laughs under his breath and shakes his head and gestures at the folder. “You want to give me the lowdown on that? If I have to read one more introductory bio, I might need something stronger than coffee.”

The folder's got two names written on the front in Barnes' messy handwriting: Strucker & Maximoff. Having two names is a little strange, because pairs who have a current contract only list one name, that of whoever the attention is going to be on in the sessions. Clint personally doesn't deal with underage Doms, and Barnes knows that, so it shouldn't be a case of a student and a guardian, but there aren't many other options.

“Sure,” Barnes says easily, hands in his pockets. “The actual client is Pietro Maximoff. Had to call around and ask about him, because I couldn't fuckin' believe what they'd put down. He's had more than 10 training contracts initiated, but none of them have been carried through to the end. Not one, Clint. And he's never been the one to call it off.”

Clint's eyebrows draw together, because that's... weird, to say the least. “How old is he?”

“Just turned 21. The other name's his adoptive dad. Kid's legal, but hasn't been able to finish a proper training, so he's not recognized as a Dom by law. It's a fuckin' weird situation.”

“Yeah,” Clint says slowly, reaching out to pull the folder closer. Some cases are hard, he knows that, but 10 contracts? The kid's either really fucking edgy, or he's a pain in the ass that refuses to be taught. And seeing some of the names of the Doms Maximoff has entered into contracts with, Clint's leaning a little more toward the 'pain in the ass' option. “Is that... they're asking for a three-month term.”

Barnes shrugs. “It's not 24/7, and it's close to home. Like, you'd be able to drive there every day, if you wanted to, but Strucker mentioned that he'd be more than willing to provide a place for you to stay, as well as board. Also, because the situation's a little... out there, he's willing to pay double your usual rate.”

Clint does the math. Depending on the number of hours and the topic being focused on, he varies between $100-$500 a day, and from what he's seen in the file and what Barnes has said, he's leaning a little more toward $400-$450. Double that, and he gets $800-$900 _a day_ , without having to worry about finding a place to stay close to the property. 

“What's the catch?” he asks.

Barnes grins again, and Clint braces himself.

“No catch. 'nother incentive, actually. Romanov's his twin's contract.”

Yeah, that's an all right incentive. Clint hasn't seen Nat in months, because she's the most popular Dom at Stark’s agency, and he's the second, and getting schedules like theirs to line up is a bitch and a half. But that's good, that Nat's already there. She's already scoped out the situation, and that makes Clint feel a hell of a lot better.

“The twin as stubborn as him?”

Barnes shakes his head. “Nah. She got her certification the day she turned 18. Think Romanov's doing some specialty thing with humiliation and edge play.” He pauses. “Fraternal twins, I think.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. If there's that much of a marked difference in the twins getting their certifications, then he's pretty sure they're not identical twins. “I... I think I'll take it. Will you make the call?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can it, Barnes.”

* * *

Wolfgang von Strucker's house is a good hour-and-a-half ride from Clint's office, but it takes him out into the country, and getting away from the hustle and bustle of New York City is a little nice. It's easily the longest ride he's been on in months, and while he could have taken a company car, there are some first impressions that he likes to make that are much easier to do when he's clad in leather, head to toe. It's shameless, but it works, especially when he's dealing with Doms who are less than cooperative. 

Clint's going to reserve judgment on Pietro Maximoff until he meets him, because he knows that there are special cases. Clint himself didn't get his certification until he was nearly twenty, because the Dom his family had hired was shit at explaining about the head space Dominants went into. And because of that, the first time Clint had tried to scene with someone and had melted a little into the urge to _control_ , he'd gotten scared and safeworded, and that had been the end of that.

Then a friend had referred him to a man named Phil Coulson, and Clint had learned everything from him. He'd taken a job at Stark's company because of Coulson (and Natasha, but he'd never tell her that), and actively strove to be the kind of Dom that Coulson was: kind, understanding, and damn good at his job.

So it's _possible_ that Maximoff just hadn't found a Dom that worked with his natural style, but with ten canceled contracts under his belt, Clint's thinking that there might be some sort of underlying problem. He might be a switch, like Coulson. That, or the kid's got some sort of heavy kink, like intense sadism, that most Doms just can't work with. Clint didn't see anything mentioned in the contract, but he makes a mental note to ask about that, because he's got his own limits, and as much as he'd hate to be the eleventh Dom to break the contract, he's got his own sanity to think about.

The house, when he pulls up to it, isn't even really a house. It's more along the lines of a mansion, complete with a wrought iron gate and a half-mile driveway that leads to the actual house. Clint remembers Barnes saying something about Strucker being well-off, but Barnes' definition of 'well-off' apparently means 'really fucking rich'. Which explains why the guy can afford to pay Clint double his normal rates.

He taps the button on the intercom with a gloved hand and pulls his helmet off so whoever's on the other side can see his face. He has the sinking feeling that this is going to be the kind of place that makes him hyper-aware of the fact that he's dusty and dirty from his ride, and for a moment he wishes he'd taken the car, first impressions aside, but before he can think about that too much, the intercom buzzes.

“Do you have an appointment?”

 _Fuck_ , Clint thinks, and then rolls his shoulders back and sits up a little straighter. “Yeah,” he says. “About a three-month long one. I'm Clint Barton, the Dom that was hired?”

There's a pause, and then, “Please come inside,” crackles over the speaker, and the gates lurch backwards. They move slowly, and Clint eyes them distrustfully until they open wide enough to let his bike through, and then guns it just enough to be heard by the people inside the house.

Clint Barton is an excellent Dom. That doesn't mean, necessarily, that he's mature.

He parks his bike in front of the entrance to the house and slides off it, dusting off his thighs best he can. He hangs his helmet on the handle, and before he can stand there and wonder what the hell to do, the big wooden door opens and a man in a bespoke suit walks out.

Yeah, Clint can _taste_ how woefully under-dressed he is.

But it doesn't matter, because the contract has been signed, and though Clint can tell immediately that the man standing on the steps is a Dom, he can also tell that he's definitely not active. He's probably close to Clint's own age, but there's a stiffness in his shoulders and gait that belies a lack of serious playtime, and it makes Clint wonder if the reason his son is having issues is because he doesn't know how the fuck a Dominant is supposed to act.

“Strucker?” he asks, walking up the steps, and the man nods, holding out his hand. Clint shakes it. “Clint Barton. Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure,” Strucker says, smoothly, “is all mine.”

Clint kind of dislikes him immediately, but he smiles anyway and gestures towards the house. “'s a nice place you've got here. Good for privacy, I bet.”

“It does serve its purpose.” Strucker smiles thinly, and Clint starts to hope that he doesn't have to deal with the man on the regular. Three months is a long time to put up with thinly veiled condescension. God, three months. He hopes he hasn't fucked up again with this contract.

“I will have your motorbike stored in one of the garages,” Strucker says, and while Clint bristles a little at the thought of someone else touching his bike, he nods his thanks, because turning that offer down is just dumb. “If you'll follow me, Pietro is waiting inside.”

Pietro. Clint's seen a picture of the kid, and he knows he's handsome, with a shock of white hair and broad shoulders and a 'try me' expression that makes Clint chuckle every time he looks at it. He remembers being young and cocksure, definitely, but this kid's got the cockiness down to an art, and Clint knows that without ever meeting him.

“Yeah, sounds great,” he says, and follows Strucker inside, hefting his bag on his shoulder. It's got a change of clothes, something a little easier to move in, and some of his basic tools, the ones he doesn't like borrowing from other people: a few lengths of rope, a TENS unit, a cock ring, and other paraphernalia. He doesn't know what the kid has or doesn't have, but he suspects they'll be making a few trips to the store as they figure out what Pietro's style is. 

Strucker leads him down a hallway, and then up a staircase, and the whole time, Clint's painfully aware of the rocks and pebbles embedded in his boots, but Strucker doesn't comment on it, so Clint doesn't either. He feels a little sorry for the hardwood, though, even though he's pretty sure Strucker has the kind of money that would let him re-floor the whole house without so much as a second thought. If Clint were the type to be intimidated by money, he'd be shaking in his boots.

But the worst Strucker, or the kid, for that matter, can do is terminate the contract. Clint's not worried.

The man stops in front of a door, and Clint's aware that they're pretty deep in the house, though he's not sure he could find his way back out if pressed. It's a _big house_. But he doesn't have much time to think about that, because Strucker's opening the door a moment later and saying, “Your charge, Mr. Barton.”

Clint looks and sees Pietro Maximoff on the other side of the door, and the first phrase that pops into his head is 'caged animal'. There's a bit of wildness in the kid's eyes, the same tension in his shoulders that Strucker has, though it's a little more pronounced in Pietro. He's standing in the middle of the room, frozen, fingers laced behind his neck and legs parted, like he was pacing before they opened the door. 

He meets Clint's eyes, defiance and curiosity all wrapped up in one look, and then gives him a once-over. The leather makes the impression Clint had hoped it would, and the kid's eyes go a little wide before flicking back up to the older man's face, wary now. Pietro himself is in a pair of track pants and a tight-fitting workout shirt, at odds with everything in the house, at odds with the way Strucker's dressed, and Clint wonders a little if that's the only way they clash.

“Due to the circumstances surrounding his last failed contract, he's been confined to his room.” Strucker's voice is smooth and even a little... disappointed, Clint thinks, but that's not quite the right word. It's like disappointment, but it's mixed in with the same condescension he'd used when speaking to Clint, earlier, and it's now directed at _Pietro_. “It will be up to you how to handle him, now. I invite you to take a day or two to settle in.”

Pietro's shoulders stiffen, and the action makes Clint ask, “Just for reference, how long's he been in solitary?”

Strucker laughs, like the fact that his kid's obviously _not_ in a good head space is funny. “Nearly a month. I've found that it is the only thing short of corporal punishment that gets his attention properly.” Strucker chuckles again. “And I'm afraid I'm no longer hands-on enough to administer those.”

 _No longer_ hands-on enough. Fucking hell.

“Yeah,” Clint says, because Strucker is looking at him and he has to say something. “Not all that fond of spanking, myself.” And it's apparently the right thing to say, because Strucker laughs under his breath, but it's also the wrong thing because Pietro's eyes narrow and the corner of his mouth curls downwards. “If you don't mind, I think I'll clean up a little first, but I would like to start on some things tonight. That all right with everyone?”

Strucker waves a hand before Pietro can answer, nodding. “Yes, of course. Your room is next door.” He motions to the left of the door, and Clint shifts his pack on his shoulder, hoping the message that he wants to get inside as soon as possible gets across. “I believe I told your secretary this, but I know how unreliable they can be, especially when... well.” Strucker smiles, and Clint returns it, even it feels tight across his cheeks.

 _Do it,_ he thinks. Fucking insult Bucky, or submissives. Give me a reason.

But Strucker doesn't, just waves a hand with a dismissive little noise. “I don't need to be informed about what you are doing with him. I would prefer not to be, in fact. The boy needs to _learn_ , however you see fit.”

Clint knows how this works. He hasn't done a beginner's training in a while, but they all kind of flow the same. The instructor gets a feel for the kind of Dom the student is, and then the student submits to the instructor until they get a handle on what the domination looks and feels like. Once they've got that, the relationship becomes less about submission and more about instruction, until the student is capable of carrying on a scene by themselves. 

So he knows, objectively, that he's going to be in control of the kid until he figures how to run scenes on his own. But the way Strucker's phrasing it, what he's getting at... Christ, he's going to have to have a long talk with Pietro. Because if Strucker's been hiring the kind of Doms that would like that kind of permission, then Clint's got his work cut out for him. And Pietro's distrust of him probably runs _deep _.__

__“Great,” he says, still smiling the smile that feels wrong on his face._ _

__Strucker claps him on the shoulder, and Clint's obviously passed some sort of test, because the man's considerably warmer towards him. “Excellent,” he says. “I'll send someone to call you for supper, later.”_ _

__Clint will deal with the idea of sharing a meal with Strucker later. For now, he lets the man close the door to Pietro's room without so much as a 'goodbye', and then goes over to his own room. It's spacious, and furnished expensively, but he doesn't give it much more than a cursory glance before he's stripping out of his leathers and walking into the bathroom._ _

__It's a wet room, all tiled, and the shower's got a half-dozen shower heads scattered over three walls, and when Clint steps under the streams of water, he's pretty sure the sound he lets out is obscene. A bit of the tension drains out of his neck, and for a moment, he just stands there, one hand braced against the wall, letting the water cascade down over him._ _

__This contract is going to be _hard_._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work title taken from "Stitch Me Up" by Rise Against.
> 
> So, fun fact, this fic has been sitting in my Google Drive since ATJ first graced the screen as Pietro. I just pulled it out of the depths and I'm wrapping it up, so I decided to post it! I know Clint/Pietro isn't all that popular of a pairing anymore *cries* but I hope y'all who read it enjoy it <3


	2. Chapter 2

The shower leaves Clint feeling refreshed a little more ready to face whatever it is the kid's going to throw at him, and maybe just a little guilty about taking the time to wash off the dirt of the trip when Pietro's been locked up in his room for a month. A _month_. Clint shakes his head as he dresses again, wiping down his leather jacket until it's presentable. He leaves the chaps in the room, but slips his gloves into his pocket, just in case. He might be able to entice the kid to go on a ride with him, but who knows. 

Running a hand through his still-damp hair, he steps out of his room and closes the door behind him, before turning to Pietro's and knocking. “Pietro?” he calls, because unlike Strucker, he thinks the kid deserves a little privacy. “This is Clint. Can we talk?”

There's a shuffling sound from the other side of the door, and then a pause that goes on long enough that Clint starts to wonder if the kid's actually ever going to open the door. He's about to call out again when the knob turns and the door swings open, making Clint come face-to-face with Pietro.

Pietro, whose eyes are still rimmed a little red, even though he's obviously tried to make it look like he hasn't been crying. Clint's chest aches, and his hands ache to reach out and offer comfort, because a pair of Dominants they might be, but Clint's never been picky about that when offering someone a shoulder to lean on. He doesn't, though, because Pietro's still watching him with narrowed eyes and a tense posture, like he's ready to slam the door in Clint's face at a moment's notice.

He gets the distrust, but they're going to need to work past it, and damn quick. He opens his mouth to speak, but Pietro's gaze flickers over his shoulder, and a breath later, Clint turns to see a maid walk by, throwing them a less-than-covert glance. When he looks back at the kid, Pietro shrugs.

“There is always someone watching,” he says, and yeah, Clint's starting to get that. 

He steps back, putting his hands in his pockets and nodding down the hall. “Come on, then. Let's go for a walk. Figure you could do with some fresh air, yeah?”

Pietro's expression instantly becomes more wary, more guarded, and Clint sighs. “We're not going to do anything. We're going to talk, at the most, and maybe go for a ride if you're into that. Can't do shit until you trust me, right?” _I'm not going to make you do anything until you know I'm on your side_. “So come on. Do you know where your sister is?”

The kid's halfway through the door, hesitant, when Clint asks the question, and he stops. “My sister?” he repeats, confusion mixing with the distrust on his face. “What do you want with my sister?”

 _Protective_ , Clint thinks. Out loud, he says, “A good friend of mine is in the contract with her. Thought we could both go say hi. You had a chance to see her much over the last little bit?”

Pietro pauses, and then shakes his head slowly, like he has to decide whether or not it's safe to give Clint that kind of information. He hesitates again, and then says, “You are friends with Mistress Romanov?” like he can't believe Clint and Natasha could be close. And if Clint's not mistaken, there's some serious respect in the kid's voice for her.

“Yeah,” he says, casually, shrugging one shoulder, and doesn't let his eyes linger on Pietro's form when he steps cautiously through the door, looking around like he's expecting his father to appear out of nowhere and make him go back inside. “We've been tight for going on a decade, now. She's one of the reasons I applied for this job, actually.” He pauses. “She's pretty all right, huh?”

He half expects the kid to blush or something, but Pietro doesn't, just cocks his head as he considers. “She is...” he says after a moment, leaning against the open door. “She is...” He waves a hand, and Clint grins. 

“Not your flavor, huh?”

 _That_ makes a flush rise on the kid's pronounced cheekbones, and it's _cute_. Pietro's cute like that, but Clint wisely doesn't say anything. They're just getting to the point where the kid's talking to him, and he doesn't want to wreck that quite yet.

“You could say that,” Pietro says quietly, kicking at the floor with his shoe. Clint gets it, maybe. Nat... comes on pretty strong, and Pietro doesn't strike him as being a super dominant player, anyway. The kid's probably a little more low-key, more lined up like Clint himself, and if that's not a bout of good fortune, Clint doesn't know what is. 

He keeps his hands in his pockets, even though he kind of wants to reach out and ruffle the kid's hair, or pull him in close and hug him, or something. “You wouldn't happen to know the way out of this place, would you? Because I don't have a problem admitting I'm completely lost.”

Pietro flashes him a brief grin that's only three-quarters mocking, and Clint grins back, easy. He's not under any delusions that the kid trusts him, or is even going to anytime soon, but the grin is progress, so he's happy. “I am already guiding you,” Pietro says, stepping forward enough to let the door close behind him. “I do not think this is a good sign.”

Clint snorts at that , shaking his head. “I'm sure I'll have plenty of guidance for you,” he returns. “Just wait.” He pauses. “You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, by any means, but your... Strucker said that your last contract ended badly. Any chance I can get some of the details about that? I'd just rather not have a repeat with this.”

For a moment, Clint thinks he's fucked up badly, because Pietro's face kind of shuts down and his expression goes back to being calculating, closed off, and Clint's halfway to opening his mouth to apologize when then kid sighs, shoulders slumping a little. 

“He... discovered something, about me. Something I would prefer to keep quiet. But he was... how do you say? An opportunist? So he attempted to use that information to blackmail me.”

Clint doesn't _get it_. It's not that he doesn't believe Pietro, because he does. The downcast eyes and the slump to his shoulders tell him that the kid's telling the truth. But what doesn't make sense is that Strucker locked _him_ up, not the creep who tried to take advantage, and Clint's not sure if that's just the other Dom's sadistic streak showing, or if there's more to the story.

“So, you're in solitary because...?”

Pietro looks up, grimacing. “When he attempted to make the blackmail... physical, I...” He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. He's clearly uncomfortable, but he's talking, so Clint just waits, until... 

“I bit his dick.”

Clint blinks, and then snorts, because he can't help it. He's cringing internally, both from the phantom sensation of _that_ and the fact that the kid's had to deal with fucking sexual assault and was _punished_ for defending himself, but the non-apologetic voice that Pietro delivers the line in is perfect. 

“Good on you,” he says, and watches as Pietro's eyes jerk up to his, surprise evident there. “Fucker deserved it.”

It's like the kid's entire body goes slack with relief, then. Pietro sighs, leaning up against the wall, and nods. “Yes. He did.” 

Clint wonders, briefly, if he's the only person who's taken the kid's side.

He's happy that they've talked about it now, though, because it's given him a chance to prove to Pietro that he's not an asshole, as well as reminding him that when they get to it, they'll need to have a long discussion about limits and triggers. A long discussion. In which Clint will most definitely takes notes. 

“You wanna tell me the guy's name? I've got some pretty decent influence in those circles. I could make sure he never gets another decent contract again.”

Pietro's eyes flash, and he opens his mouth, pausing, before closing it and shaking his head.

“All right,” Clint says, shrugging. “You change your mind, you let me know.” And he lets it go, just like that, and Pietro looks at him like he can't believe Clint's dropping the subject. “What? I'm not going to force you to tell me. I'm not going to force you to do anything. This is about teaching you how to be a good Dom and figuring out what you like, not about me exerting control over you.”

“Your definition of our agreement is very different than his was,” Pietro says quietly, his eyes passing over Clint again like he's sizing him up. He must find whatever he's looking for, because the next moment, he squares his shoulders. “You wanted to see my sister, and go for a... a ride, yes?” He stumbles over the last few words, so Clint decides to clarify.

“I have a bike,” he says, fishing the leather gloves out of his pocket and showing them to Pietro. “I don't just wear all this leather for fun.” That gets him a small smile and a snort of laughter, so he continues. “I'd be more than happy to take you for a ride on that. Might help with the privacy thing, too.”

Pietro nods carefully, and then says, “Perhaps tomorrow?”

It's a little more than obvious he's not expecting Clint to agree, but the older man just nods, sticking his gloves back in his pocket. He's not going to press the issue, and he's not going to try to speed things up past what Pietro's okay with. They've got three months, anyway. That's plenty of time. And he'd rather get Pietro to trust him _first_ , so that the kid won't fight him every step of the way.

“Sure,” he says, taking a step back. “Not like we don't have the time. You wanna go see your sister or what?”

Pietro's body kind of jerks forward, uncoordinated and jerky, but he rights himself quickly enough, running a hand through his hair like he's trying not to look as eager as he is. He looks at Clint uncertainly for a moment, as if he expects him to take the lead even though Clint knows fuck all about the layout of the house. When he doesn't, the kid straightens perceptibly, and then jerks his head down the hallway.

“This way.”

Pietro leads, and Clint follows. It's clearly throwing the kid off a little, and Clint can only imagine what he's been expecting. Considering the number of contracts he's been through, he's dealt with his fair share of Doms trying to establish the fact that they're in charge, even in contracts that are instructional in nature. Pietro's obviously expecting Clint to make some overt show of power, or use his Dom voice, or _something_ , and Clint's going to let him wonder about it for a little while, but other than the leather, he doesn't go for much overtness. 

“Big house,” he comments, and Pietro just gives him a dry look in return. “What? I never had anything this big growing up. Closest I got was the runaway shelter, but half of that was kitchens and storage.”

Clint expects the kid to make a comment about that, something along the lines of 'why were you in a runaway shelter,' but Pietro just nods, hands in his pockets. “There is never enough space in shelters.”

He's talking from experience. That's obvious to anyone with two eyes. Clint put two and two together and came up with the fact that the twins were adopted when he got the contract, but from the way Pietro's talking, it sounds like the place they came from wasn't exactly sunshine and roses.

Clint nudges their shoulders together a little, just enough to come across like he's commiserating. And he is. “I had my brother to look out for me, for the most part,” he says, when the silence goes on for a few moments. “Wasn't awful. Wasn't all that great, either, but you know. Life goes on.”

Pietro laughs dryly, shaking his head a little. “You... adapt,” he says, waving one hand a little. “To fit the circumstances, yes?”

Clint blinks a little, and then nods slowly. The kid's right, but the way he says it... he says it like it's something he's still dealing with, and while that's a crying shame, because he's obviously done enough adapting, it gets Clint wondering what, exactly, he's trying to adapt to. Strucker, yeah, because the guy's a dick, but what's he expecting out of the kid that Pietro would be that carefully blasé about it?

“For the time,” he says, carefully. “But you gotta stay true to yourself, you know?”

Pietro just shrugs.

* * *

Clint kind of wants to memorize the look on Pietro's face when he sees his sister.

It's love, pure and unadulterated, and devotion and relief and joy and just... happiness. For a moment, all he does is stare at her, because she's sitting on the grass with her back to him, talking to Nat, but the older woman looks up when she sees them and Wanda follows suit not long after. And the look on her face when she sees Pietro is a mirror image of his.

Clint hangs back while Wanda scrambles to her feet and runs over to her brother, and politely averts his eyes while they embrace. No amount of trying to give them privacy, though, is enough to stop him from hearing the sound Pietro makes when his sister's arms wrap around him. It's almost wounded, like it was punched out of him, and it makes Clint look up just long enough to see Pietro bury his face in his sister's neck. Living out where they do, Clint doubts the pair of them have that many friends, and they're obviously close, and _this_ is what Strucker has been keeping Pietro from. His _sister_.

Wanda looks up before Clint can look away again, meeting his eyes. She mouths something at him, and it takes him a moment to realize it's a _thank you_ , a fucking thank you. Then she's turning her face into her brother's hair, and Clint lets his eyes drop.

Yeah, he's not going to let this contract get fucked up.

Eventually, the twins break their embrace, though they don't move that far away from each other. They start speaking in a language that Clint doesn't recognize, not that he's listening in or anything, so he makes his way over to where Nat's still sitting and levers himself down to sit next to her, letting out a sigh. “Long time no see.”

She glances up at him, raises an eyebrow, and then throws a pointed look in Pietro's direction. “You got him out of confinement,” she says, and there's a faint trace of approval in her tone. “And to see his sister. That's a lot of points in your favor.”

Clint shrugs. “Not doing it for the points. Doing it because no one should be locked up in their room for a month.” Glancing over at the twins, he sees a few gestures in his direction, followed by Pietro shaking his head and _blushing_ , so he makes the deduction that they're talking about something related to him. “He's a good kid, from what I've seen. Just can't trust for shit, and that's not surprising.”

Natasha makes a noise in her throat, laying back against the grass. She's wearing some of her gear – a red button-up that favors her figure, a black vest that does the same, and a pair of black knee-high boots that Clint has seen more that his fair share of tongues clean. Natasha's a bit of a different kind of Dom than he is, but she's no less respectful or caring, and she takes as good, if not better care of her submissives. And she's let him crash in her bed more than once when a drop has hit him particularly hard, which is something he loves her for.

“He's not a strong Dominant,” she says after a moment, and Clint grins in agreement, shaking his head.

“Nah, he's not. I'd say borderline switch, even, though I probably would have pegged him for a sub if I hadn't seen the paperwork.” He pauses. “Wonder if that's part of his problem with keeping a contract. Not everyone can work with people that close to the line.”

Nat just shrugs and doesn't reply, and a moment later, Clint levers himself to his feet. He dusts himself off and makes a production of it, just to make what he's doing obvious, so that Pietro won't be surprised when he walks over. The kid's still obviously reluctant to leave his sister, even if the moment that Clint steps over, Pietro backs away from her with one last embrace, eyes dropping to the ground.

“I'm going to go track down something to eat,” Clint says, watching as Pietro's eyes flicker up to his, surprised. “You hungry?"

Pietro glances at his sister, and then at Clint again, confusion still evident on his face. "No," he says hesitantly, after a long pause, like he's unsure if it’s the right answer. "I doubt you've been shown the kitchens yet. I can..."

Clint shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll figure it out, or find someone to show me. Looks like you could do with some fresh air, time with your sister." He glances over to where Nat's sitting. "Hey, you okay with calling it a day for her?"

He knows she will be, knows that Nat gets it and feels the same sympathy for the kids that he does. But asking is polite and protocol, since Nat is engaged in a contract with Wanda. 

True to belief, Nat waves a hand distractedly. "Sure. We've done most of what I wanted to get through, anyway." She gets to her feet and stretches. "We'll start on pain play tomorrow - you wanted to get some experience with the flogger, right?"

Pietro flinches visibly, and yeah, Clint gets it. The flogger isn't his favorite implement, either - it's too violent, too forceful, and he thinks there are many more ways to get a point across, even if both parties are into pain or impact play. He much prefers a knife or his bare hand, and he guesses that he says something to that nature aloud, because Nat laughs and Wanda shakes her head. 

"There is no way to imitate the marks of a flogger."

"No," Clint agrees. "But," he continues, tilting his head in Pietro's direction, "not everyone enjoys that sort of play."

Wanda looks suitably subdued, and when Clint looks over at Pietro again, the kid looks a little shocked, which makes Clint wonder if some of his previous contracts have tried to make him try things he wasn't comfortable with yet. Just another thing to talk about, he thinks.

"Not a huge fan of it myself," he says, to Pietro, just to make sure his point is solid. "If that's something you're interested in, though, I'm sure Nat would be more than happy to show you some things."

Pietro shakes his head so fast that Clint has to stop himself from smiling. The kid's eager, and that's good, and Clint has the feeling that some gentle handling and a little firm but kind guiding will have him... wherever he wants to be. At least to the point where he could take someone down and not leave them damaged. 

"I'll be back after food," he says, and then, "you have a phone, right?"

Pietro shrugs. "Yes. I believe my father still has it confiscated, though." He glances down at the ground, and Christ, he looks ashamed, like he actually did something to deserve the punishment he's getting from Strucker. Clint wishes they were just a little closer, because he'd reach out and wrap the kid up in a hug if they were, and tell him that none of this, absolutely none of it, is his fault. 

Instead, he just shoves his hands into his pocket and nods briefly. "All right. Well, then I'll go get that back for you, and then get food. This thing isn't going to work very well if you can't get in touch with me to ask questions, now is it?"

Pietro gives him another of those calculating looks, like he can't quite figure out what it is that Clint's offering, but eventually he nods. "I don't often have questions," he says, and Clint just smiles. 

"We'll see," he says, and then turns towards the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention this was a slow burn story? It's a slow burn story. Sorry/not sorry, I love my world building.
> 
> Early chapter posting because I'm going to be swamped tomorrow, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, we're gonna try something new. Here's a [form](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSc_XDa13oi8-87-NDtTssMum1CCxNiDW9NdVmoe0mUiAhxtuQ/viewform?usp=sf_link) to fill out if you want some say in my next fic! (Titles are the options, lmk if you think I should add pairings or more info).


	3. Chapter 3

“Barton. Pleasure to see you again.”

It’s anything but a pleasure, but Clint still smiles politely as he takes a seat at the table. It’s a large, solid piece of wood, inlaid with something that looks golden and expensive. It’s big enough to fit at least twenty people, but there are only two places set. It’s strangely intimate in a way that has an itch settling under Clint’s skin. He promised Strucker dinner, which is the only reason he’s here - every part of him would much rather be with Pietro, talking to him, figuring out the best plan to go forward with. But Strucker is paying the bill, and Clint wants to take the opportunity to learn more about Pietro’s history, from Strucker’s point of view. Wants to know how many times the man used corporal punishment to keep the kid in line.

Clint sips his wine and hopes the alcohol will help with how on edge he feels. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe Pietro really was unmanageable during his younger days - maybe Strucker was joking about the term of solitary, and about the punishments. Maybe his sense of humor is just… off. Clint doesn’t think that’s the case, but he’s hopeful, at least, that there’s a reasonable explanation.

“I have to say, I’m surprised you’re still here,” Strucker says. “You don’t strike me as the domineering sort that he needs.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Clint replies, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t feel like defending his style to Strucker, not when the man’s own style is so… questionable. 

_No longer hands-on enough_ , Clint thinks, and shudders. Strucker, apparently oblivious of Clint’s discomfort, laughs, taking a long drink from his own glass. Clint mimics the action, knowing that, at least the appearance of being social, being _comfortable_ , will help.

Their food comes out before he can say anything else. It’s a garishly lavish meal: two types of red meat, a lobster dish, four vegetable sides, and two extra bottles of wine. It’s more food that two people could ever manage to eat - hell, Clint’s pretty sure them _and_ the twins would have trouble finishing it. But none of the three people that bring the food to the table make a move to join them, and Strucker doesn’t wait before he starts piling food onto his own plate.

“As I said before,” Strucker says after a few minutes of silence. “I do not wish to be involved with the boy’s training. If there is an issue, of course, please bring it to my attention, but I do expect that there will be a certain degree of responsibility on your shoulders, given the amount I’m paying you.”

Clint’s not sure which part of Strucker’s little speech he finds so offensive. Maybe it’s the implication that he would ever be irresponsible in a contract, regardless of what he’s being paid. Maybe it’s the part where Strucker is happily handing his son over to a stranger with no desire to ensure his safety. Maybe it’s just his tone, which drips with condescension and entitlement. Whatever it is, it rubs Clint so, so wrong.

“There is something,” Clint manages to interject, before Strucker can continue. “I’d like the kid to have a phone. It’s a lot easier for some people to talk about things _not_ face-to-face, and I think…”

Strucker waves a hand. “Done,” he says. “Is that all?”

Clint blinks and says, “Yes,” and then Strucker is off, talking about something else. When Clint tunes in to the words, he gets the idea it’s about whatever the man does for a living, but he honestly can’t bring himself to actively listen to him more than every few minutes. Strucker doesn’t seem to mind his obvious disinterest; he continues on anyway, despite Clint’s monosyllabic responses.

Over the course of the next hour, Clint learns that Strucker works in imports/exports, has a summer home in France, and _had_ a wife that died years ago. He also learns that Strucker “rescued” the twins (his words), when they were toddlers, adopting them from a tiny war-torn European country that Strucker doesn’t even remember the name of. His language is casual and dismissive, and he never refers to the twins as _his_ : they’re ‘the twins’ or ‘the children,’ or, when he’s talking about Pietro, ‘the boy.’ It’s just another thing that’s unsettling, that paints a somewhat disturbing picture of the kind of childhood Pietro had.

“At the time, the adoption was very good PR for the company,” Strucker says, sipping from his third glass of wine. Clint is still on his first, kindly refusing every time Strucker offers to refill it. He already has rage coiling in the pit of his stomach, brought on by Strucker’s casual indifference to his children. He doesn’t need the alcohol to lower his inhibitions enough that he actually says some of the things going through his head.

Dessert is a selection of liquor that Clint pretends to sip at while Strucker rambles about the vendor he bought it from. Clint catches fewer pieces than before, more focused on getting to the end of the meal and being able to walk away. To think, properly, about his next steps with Pietro. Because, true to his word, Strucker seems to want nothing to do with the kid's training. And really, Clint's okay with that. If he had his way, he'd remove the man from the equation all together. He's known him for less than 24 hours, but he's pretty good at getting a read on people, and the vibe he's getting from Strucker is less than savory. 

 

One of the food-bearers comes out with a phone, which she hands to Clint. He thanks her, and she _curtseys_ at him. The gesture is so archaic it actually freezes Clint in place for a moment, and he only realizes the woman was a sub after she’s turned and left. And Strucker notices his hesitation, his surprise, because he laughs and waves a hand at the woman’s retreating back.

“I’m surprised she remembered,” he says. “Unreliable little things, aren’t they?”

Clint forces a smile, and nods, and excuses himself with a murmur that sounds something like thanks. He’s one more moment, one more condescending remark away from giving Strucker a piece of his mind, and that’s not going to do anyone especially Pietro, any good. 

He finds the kid’s room mostly through luck, and when he knocks on the door, there’s a shuffle of feet and a pause before the door swings open. Pietro is on the other side, and behind him is his sister. She meets Clint’s gaze, eyes blazing, and Clint wonders how often the two of them have been kept apart as punishment. If they’ve ever really had the freedom to just _be_.

When Clint reaches into his pocket and gives Pietro his phone back, the kid looks at him like there's supposed to be some sort of catch, but the look goes away fairly quickly. Which, Clint thinks, is progress, even if Pietro makes it a point to say, again, that he doubts he's going to have any questions. 

"Maybe you won't," Clint agrees. "But it can't hurt, now can it?" 

He gets a look that’s all knitted eyebrows and confusion from Pietro, and one from Wanda that’s more… assessing. Whatever she decides on, he doesn’t know, but she does slip past him without comment, so Clint assumes they’re still on OK terms.

He sleeps at the mansion that night, because the bed looks comfortable and he wants to take Pietro for a ride first thing in the morning, get him away from the house a little bit. He thinks it'll help, a lot, and he hasn't met anyone who wasn't a little happier after taking a ride with him. And since they're going to have to get pretty damn intimate over the next couple of weeks, this will be a good first step. 

And, maybe at some point, Clint will get the opportunity to ask the kid about his alignment. Because, like he told Nat, he would have pegged Pietro as a sub if he'd met him on the street. But there's no way to ask about something like that without it being very, very personal, and Clint doesn't think they're quite there yet. Pietro doesn't hate him anymore, but there isn't any lost love there, either, and before he asks the kid if he's a switch or not, he wants Pietro to know that he's going to help him, no matter what the answer. 

He wonders, briefly, if Strucker’s attitude towards submissives has rubbed off on the twins at all. He knows Nat, knows she wouldn’t tolerate anything but respect from Wanda, but Pietro… there’s still so much Clint just doesn’t know about the kid. He’d like to sit him down and rapid-fire questions until he’s got all the information he needs, but Clint also knows that Pietro wouldn’t respond well to being interrogated. It’s going to be slow going for a bit. 

And that's the problem. He doesn't know Pietro, or the situation, and doesn't really know if he's a weak Dominant trying to come across stronger than he is, or if he's a submissive trying to pass as a Dom, or if he's not designated and Strucker's just... projecting, because all three of those are possibilities, and all three are things that Clint can see the kid not wanting to talk about. 

Come morning, all those thoughts are still circulating in his head, refusing to quiet down even as he dresses in his leathers. Somehow, he's got to win this kid over, and soon. He's had harder contracts, sure, but this is the first time ever that he's been unsure of his charge's designation, and that's just not sitting well with him, at all.

* * *

Pietro's more than a little taciturn when Clint goes to get him. There's no sign of any of the previous day's tolerance, and all he gets when he tells the kid "good morning" is a slightly annoyed breath of air and a pair of eyes that won't meet his own. Clint's done something wrong, he's sure of it, but he just can't figure out what, and in the meantime, Pietro's decided to all but ignore him.

"Figure we'll head down to that little patch of woods about a mile out," he says while he's handing Pietro the spare helmet. The kid's wearing a pair of tight jeans and a leather jacket, built for style rather that utility, and Clint would normally protest that, but it's a short ride and he doesn't want any more delays in getting away from the house and Strucker. They need to talk, before Pietro has any more time to spend caught up in his own head. 

Clint climbs onto the bike, and holds out his hand to help Pietro up, but the kid ignores the gesture. He hoists himself up, clumsily, and settles behind Clint. They’re touching only where they have to - Pietro’s hands are resting lightly on Clint’s hips, and the kid’s chest is nowhere near his back. Clint revs the motor, hoping to make a point, but the kid is stubborn, and he doesn’t move except to dig his fingers a little bit more firmly into Clint’s sides.

 _Fine_ , Clint thinks. The kid’s not going to let himself fall off - he’s got more self-preservation than that. He revs the engine again, peeling out of the driveway with enough speed to send gravel flying out from under his tires. And sure enough, as soon as the momentum starts to send Pietro sliding off his seat, the kid tightens his grip on Clint’s hips and leans forward, holding himself upright on the bike.

Clint snorts, but any comment he makes will be lost to the wind whipping past them, so he settles for reaching back with his left hand and gently patting Pietro’s fingers, the ones that are white-knuckling the denim around his waist. The kid doesn’t move them, and Clint can almost _feel_ the annoyance radiating off him, but he doesn’t move. And, after Clint pulls onto the main road and the mansion starts to fade behind them, Pietro even relaxes, just a hair. 

 

Clint takes the ride slow, using the time to get himself into the right headspace. He doesn’t think they’ll be doing anything other than talking (and scratch that, they _won’t_ be doing anything other than talking, because Clint’s in charge and he doesn’t have enough information yet), but any conversation they have is going to be heavy, emotionally charged for the both of them, and Clint wants to be prepared.

After fifteen minutes or so, he turns onto an access road that leads into the tree cover. It’s away from the main road, far enough that they can talk without being bothered. Clint slows and stops the bike as soon as he can, knocking down the kickstand and sliding off. Before he can even hold his hand out to Pietro, the kid gets off, too, on the side of the bike opposite Clint. He all but yanks off his helmet, and Clint half expected him to throw it across the clearing, but he just sets it down on the seat before backing up, two steps, putting more space between them.

It's the first time they've been alone, truly alone, and the kid's on edge. His shoulders are set and his eyes are narrowed and he's got his arms crossed over that broad chest, but he's exuding cockiness, not confidence. It feels like all the progress they made the day before has disappeared, and Clint's wondering what the hell happened when Pietro finally speaks.

“My father says you are the best,” he says, looking Clint up and down. “I do not believe him.”

That's what it is. That's what it fucking is. Strucker went and talked to him, and now the kid's on edge again, back to distrusting Clint, because his father approves of him. And he gets it, he does, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating to deal with. So Clint decides to play the ace he has up his sleeve.

"He also says you're a Dom,” Clint says, casually, and flexes the fingers of his right hand, making the leather creak, before adjusting the strap of the glove. “I'm not all that inclined to believe that, either.” 

Surprise bleeds into shock on Pietro's face, which in turn bleeds into horror and fear and disappointment and determination. Before Clint can speak again, the kid's stalking forward and pushing him up against a tree, hands shaky but driven as they fist in his jacket. Pietro's entire body is shaking, and his throat is bobbing, and there's something wild in his eyes, something which Clint recognizes a second later as fight-or-flight kicking in. _Fuck_.

Clint's expecting a threat, but it doesn't come. For a moment all Pietro does is hold him there against the tree with trembling arms, eyes hard, before releasing him with a sneer that's shaky around the edges and fake as the color of his hair. Clint wants to _hold_ him, but doesn't. This has to play out first.

“I will not be blackmailed,” Pietro spits, and Clint doesn't take offense at the insinuation that he would try. “So I will inform my father that you have dissolved the contract.”

Clint raises an eyebrow and straightens his jacket. “I don't think I mentioned anything about doing that.” Confusion replaces the sneer on Pietro's face, and Clint takes a cautious step forward. “I don't _want_ to dissolve the contract. You need to get your certification, right? And for whatever reason, you're trying to get it as a Dominant, even though you're not one. Whatever. It happens. But you're still going to need to pass the tests, and you're not going to be able to do that without training. So.” He holds his arms out to the side a little. “I'm what you've got right now. If you want to roll the dice and take a chance on a new Dom, then all right. Go ahead. But I'm not gonna try to blackmail you or take advantage of you, or out you, or anything like that. That's not my style.”

Pietro looks like he doesn't believe a word, but Clint doesn't blame him for the distrust. “I do not understand,” the kid says. “What do you get out of that... arrangement?”

“I'm not a saint,” Clint says dryly. “I'm still getting paid by the day, until the end of the contract. But I do have a conscience, and the fact is, if you don't get your certification at the end of this contract, you don't get to move out. And I know you want to, and I know your sister's waiting for you to do it. And this living arrangement is about as fucked up as it gets for you two, so I don't think I could walk away without at least trying to get you out of a place where you get put in solitary because you fucking defended yourself.”

Pietro's eyes drop, but he's still shaking, his white hair nearly vibrating on his head, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Clint steps forward again, and then again, until he can gently reach up and put a gloved hand on the kid's shoulder. 

Pietro _whines_ at the contact, the sound too similar to the one he made when Wanda hugged him. It makes Clint ache a little, the realization dawning on him that the kid's probably more than a little touch-starved, so he takes another step forward and pulls Pietro in close, finally giving into the urge to wrap his arms tightly around him. And Pietro just kind of melts against him, face going to the crook of his neck, hands coming up to fist in the back of his jacket. He sinks into the embrace, and Clint just holds him, letting him take whatever comfort he wants from it, letting him know that it's okay, that Clint's not going to hurt him, that him and his secret are safe.

It's awful and it's a shame, knowing that this kid is trying to hide who he is. Because it's obviously taking a toll, and Clint knows that these things don't end well. While he doesn't doubt that Pietro will get his certification, he's still got the rest of his life to get through, all of the ups and downs, all the while pretending to be something he's not. 

So maybe Clint holds him a little closer than he should, a little tighter than he really ought to, because where Dom/Dom contracts are concerned, things like this really don't happen. But this isn't actually that kind of contract, and the kid needs it, needs someone who's on his side, who is going to put him first in all of this. Clint meant it when it said he wasn't a saint, but he's not an asshole, either, and he can't just let the kid keep having to hide who he is from everyone. 

"Easy," he murmurs, reaching up to stroke Pietro's hair with one gloved hand. "Easy, kid. It's okay. We'll get this figured out, you and me. I promise."

And that's a promise he has no business making, because a million and two things could happen between now and Pietro's certification test to make things not okay, but that's not what the kid needs to hear right now. Right now, he needs to be reassured, and since the words make the kid sag against him a little, Clint's not going to feel too guilty about them. 

Clint’s not sure how long they stand there, with Pietro curled in against his chest. It’s long enough that the kid’s breathing evens out, stops coming in in short, ragged sobs. It’s long enough that Clint starts to make a mental list of some of the reactions Pietro has to being touched; he relaxes when Clint rubs his gloved fingers against his scalp, he sighs when Clint’s arms tighten around him, he _whines_ when Clint ducks down to nose against his hair. Every little reaction is heartbreaking in its own way, making it obvious how much kindness Pietro has been lacking in his life.

Eventually, Pietro pulls away, and Clint pretends not to see the way the kid scrubs at his eyes, trying to wipe away the remains of emotion left on his face. There will be plenty of time later for all those to come to light, for the two of them to work through them. 

“You ready to head back?” Clint asks, and Pietro looks like he wants to do anything but agree. He does, though, giving a brisk, short nod, and Clint throws an arm around his shoulders before gearing them up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the "comfort" portion of the hurt/comfort tag!
> 
> Reminder: here's the [link](https://forms.gle/Zyw8tvW8gas64mdFA) to the poll I created to choose my next fic. No surprise, the most dramatic title is currently winning.
> 
> EDIT: You guys are supposed to make deciding on my next fic EASIER, not institute a 3-way tie. NOT A FUN 3-WAY, GUYS. NOT COOL.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, what do you like?”

They’re sitting on Clint’s bed, the two of them, but Pietro’s as far away from Clint as he can get, back pressed up against the wall and legs drawn tight into his chest. It’s a pattern Clint’s noticed - the kid pulls away when he’s uncomfortable, putting space between himself and everyone else, making it harder for his vulnerability to be taken advantage of. It’s fucking heartbreaking, like so many other things about the situation, about Pietro himself, but Clint doesn’t push. They’ll get to the point where Pietro wants to lean into him, instead of away from him, eventually.

Pietro shrugs in response to Clint’s question. The older man isn’t sure if it’s a deflection, or if the kid really doesn’t know what he likes. Both are plausible, but only one is really an _acceptable_ reason. Either way, establishing a verbal precedent is important, so Clint raises an eyebrow, like he’s waiting for Pietro to continue. 

The kid breaks eye contact, looking away and shrugging again. “Orgasms,” he says, deadpan. And then, almost as an afterthought, “Sometimes.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s finished, though, so Clint waits. They have time, he reminds himself. There’s no rush. So he waits for Pietro to sigh heavily and throw his head back against the wall, obviously on the brink of total frustration, just from being asked what he _liked_.

“Okay,” Clint says. “I’ll put orgasm delay/denial on the list as a maybe. It’s a good start,” he assures, when Pietro glances up at him. “But I think you probably have a better idea of what you _don’t_ like, so why don’t we start there?”

Pietro eyes him, uncertain.

“Anything goes,” Clint says. “Everything is valid. I’m not gonna get pissed if you don’t like something I do. I’m not going to judge you for anything you do or don’t like. I’m not going to tell anyone what you tell me,” he adds. “These conversations? They stay between us. I’m not going to tell your sister, or Nat, or Strucker, or the maids…” He trails off when Pietro flashes him just the smallest hint of a grin.

He expects the kid to start with something small, to test the waters, to test Clint’s reaction. He’s prepared for something like _I don’t like kneeling_ or I hate the word ‘sir’.

Pietro says, “No blindfolds. No blood,” and Clint chokes on an inhale.

The kid looks like he’s about to backtrack, but Clint raises a hand, shaking his head. He coughs once, twice, and then swallows, reaching up to rub at his neck. “That’s fine,” he says, voice rough. “You just surprised me, that’s all. No blood, no blindfolds. Hard limits?”

Pietro nods, fast and jerky. 

“Then they’re off the table,” Clint says, firmly. “If you ever want to revisit them, you can bring it up, but I won’t. What else?”

‘What else’ ends up being a rather short list. Pietro says he doesn’t like pain, winces when Clint brings up body modification, but rolls his eyes when the older man asks about shibari. “Boring,” he answers, but it’s not a no, so Clint makes a mental note of it and moves on. Tries to move on, at least, but Pietro really doesn’t seem to have an idea about what his interests are beyond ‘yes’ orgasms and ‘no’ blood. And Clint gets it, he does - the kid’s experience is sparse at best, traumatizing at worst, so coming up with a list on the spot is rough. 

So Clint assigns him homework, gives him links to reputable sites where he can read at his own pace, during his own time, without Clint there waiting for a response. The sites are generic, not sub-oriented, so if Strucker is lying about how much he wants to be involved and checks Pietro’s search history, he won’t find anything incriminating. 

Clint’s sure that Strucker knows - he _has_ to know. He’s Pietro’s guardian, and absentee father or not, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to look at the kid and figure out he’s not a Dominant. But Clint also can’t see Strucker being happy having a submissive as a son, an _heir_ , which would fucking explain why all Pietro’s contracts have been with Dominant instructors. But even if Strucker’s not forcing Pietro to go against his nature, Clint’s still not eager to let him invade Pietro’s privacy any more than he already has. The kid needs something that’s just _his_ , and the contract, their relationship, is the perfect thing.

Pietro texts him, two days after their conversation about likes and dislikes. There’s no greeting, no preamble, just _Pet names are a yes._

And that’s how it goes, for a few days. Clint doesn’t see much of the kid in person, but he hears from him a lot through text. Sometimes they’re about his likes, sometimes they’re about his dislikes, and sometimes they’re questions disguised as snide commentary. Clint gets pretty good at deciphering what Pietro actually wants, what he’s trying to get at without coming across like he actually cares. The kid’s still waiting for the whole situation to blow up in his face, so Clint cuts him some slack and answers his non-questions.

_Who the fuck enjoys getting pissed on?_

**It’s about ownership, possession. And a little humiliation. I’ll mark it down as a ‘no’ for you.**

_Why the hell would I want to get humiliated by my partner? That sounds fucking awful._

**Usually, something like humiliation is out of your control. Having it in a scene puts it in your control. The environment is safe, and the person you’re with is probably someone you trust implicitly. It can be a powerful tool of reclamation, especially with people who have had bad experiences.**

_Whatever. It’s dumb._

Clint marks humiliation as a ‘no’ on his list. It’s like that for a few things - humiliation, choking, impact play - Pietro checks in with a cutting comment, gets his information from Clint, and then moves on. Not everything ends up being a ‘no,’ though. 

_This stays between us, right?_

**Of course.**

_Okay._  
_Apparently, a lot of people like to be praised._

**They do. Is that something you think you’d like?**

_It doesn’t sound awful._

Clint marks praise as a ‘yes.’

Three days pass, and Clint develops a pretty good idea about what kind of submissive Pietro is. He’s cautious and slow to trust, which is understandable, given his past. None of the things on Pietro’s definite ‘yes’ list are dangerous: praise, pet names, kneeling. The closest one of his likes gets to pain is hair pulling, and even then the kid quantified it with _Not too hard, or I’ll bite you._ He mentions orgasms again, but doesn’t get any more specific than that, not even when Clint gently prods and asks him to elaborate. 

His text, the one that says **Would you want to have an orgasm with me?** goes unanswered for three hours. He knows the kid’s seen it, because his phone displays the little ‘READ’ message underneath it, but there’s no response. No sass, no sarcasm, no outright rebuttal. No agreement, either. Just silence.

Pietro shows up at his door around hour four. Clint barely has time to open his mouth before the kid is shoving past him, into the room, radiating anger and frustration. Clint sighs, bracing himself for the tirade that is no doubt on the way. He loves the kid’s spunk, his vocalness, but at the same time it can be fucking _exhausting_.

“How can you offer something like that?” Pietro hisses as soon as Clint closes the door. “How can… what if I said _yes_?”

Clint raises an eyebrow. He’s not sure what the kid is actually upset about, but whether it’s the offer itself or the fact that _Clint_ made it, it’s obviously ruffled a few of Pietro’s feathers. “‘Yes’ is an okay answer,” Clint says, slowly. “And if you said yes, I’d add it to the list as something we could do during a scene. If you said no, then we wouldn’t.”

Pietro groans, frustration evident in his voice and his posture. “You’re not a whore,” he bites out. “You don’t have to… just because Strucker is paying you doesn’t mean…”

And, oh. It clicks in Clint’s head exactly what the kid is upset about, why he’s so incensed. “I have my own lists of things I will and won’t do,” he says, “regardless of whether I’m getting paid or not. That doesn’t change. If I make an offer, I’m going to be okay with whatever answer you give me.” He pauses. “I didn’t make an offer, though, did I? I just asked if that’s something _you_ would want.”

Pietro huffs, but the indignation is gone from his face. It’s just regular old frustration now, and that’s so much more familiar to the both of them. “I don’t want anything to happen just because I want it to,” he says, and his face contorts in a way that tells Clint he’s not happy with his phrasing. “I do not…”

“I think I understand what you’re getting at,” Clint interrupts, and the look Pietro shoots him is both relieved and annoyed. “You don’t want your preference to influence mine, right? You don’t want me to agree to have sex with you just because you wanted it first.”

Pietro nods, his shoulders hunching forward slightly. Clint wonders if the kid’s worry comes from experience on the other side, from feeling pressured to do something because someone else wanted to. Looking at Pietro’s face, at the way he’s holding his body, Clint’s almost certain that the younger man has been through something like that. It’s heartbreaking and comforting all at the same time: Pietro cares enough, cares enough about Clint, to try to make sure the Dominant’s boundaries are being respected, even when it’s obvious that Pietro has a history of his own boundaries and limits being ignored.

Instead of speaking, Clint goes over to his bag takes a moment to crouch down and rifle through it. He can feel Pietro’s eyes on him the whole time, watching. Assessing. After a minute, he finds the sheet of paper he’s looking for and rises, keeping the printed side facing away from Pietro. “I’ve been keeping track of all the things you mentioned you like,” he says. “Orgasms were the first, remember?” He waits for Pietro’s nod. “I made up a list of my own after our conversation, of the things that I would be willing to do. Would _want_ to do with you,” he adds, because Pietro’s expression is going sour again. “I’ve got that list right here. I won’t say it’s not subject to change - that’s what a negotiation is about, kid. Finding out what works in a specific contract. But what I will say is that _my_ opinion on having sex with you is not going to change. If it lines up with yours, that’s great. If it doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world. Okay?”

“You’re so _reasonable_ ,” the kid sighs, and his tone is one of complaint, but his eyes are brimming with gratitude. “Fine. Yes, then. Sex with you is something…” he trails off, waving a hand.

“I need you to say it,” Clint says gently. “You have to be comfortable talking about things like this.”

Pietro groans, dropping his head forward into his open hands. The sound is more embarrassment than actual distress, so Clint waits, patiently, for Pietro to look up. “Yes,” the kid says eventually, voice tight and cheeks stained a little pink. “Yes, I want to have sex with you. Or orgasms with you. Or whatever. Okay?”

Clint nods, says, “Okay,” and opens his mouth to say more, but Pietro is already spinning on his heel and walking out of the room.

The text comes an hour later.

_So, when are we going to do this?_

* * *

Their first attempt at a scene goes to shit almost before it even starts.

Clint doesn’t want to tackle anything too intense the first time. No sex, no bondage, no pressure for Pietro to perform or behave in a certain way, just some gentle handling and well-placed praise designed to give him a taste of what subspace feels like. He gets from their conversations that the kid hasn’t really experienced subspace before, outside of feeling a little ‘floaty’ with his first few contracts, so Clint wants his introduction to be gentle.

It’s around eight in the evening when Pietro comes to Clint’s room (it’s always Clint’s room, because Clint doesn’t want to do anything involving Pietro feeling vulnerable in a space the kid associates with punishment and imprisonment). And Pietro’s on edge when he arrives, tension evident around his mouth and eyes, but that’s to be expected. It’s new territory for him, for the most part, and the experience he does have hasn’t been pleasant. A little apprehension is understandable.

“Breathe,” Clint says, and Pietro shoots him a glare but obeys anyway, taking a deep, steadying breath. And maybe Clint doesn’t think about the “Good boy” that drops from his lips as much as he should, but the way Pietro’s expression goes loose and dazed is enough reassurance that it’s the right thing to say.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Clint murmurs.

Pietro drops to his knees.

For a moment, the world slows. Cling feels like he looks at Pietro for ages, taking in the pretty picture he makes on his knees: the delicate curve of his shoulders, his downcast eyes, the way his fingers are…

Clint jerks out of his reverie. Pietro’s fingers are curled into fists at his sides, clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. It’s the only sign that something is off, that something’s wrong, and Clint would be impressed it not for the sudden, overwhelming concern he’s feeling.

“Hey, kid,” he says gently. Pietro still startles, even at the quiet tone. “Easy. It’s okay. Are you more comfortable on your knees?”

Clint’s not sure what he expects - a nod, maybe, or a shrug. Some kind of response, even if it’s nonverbal. What he gets, though, is nothing. No acknowledgement. No answer. Pietro doesn’t say anything, doesn’t _do_ anything, except after a moment, he falls forward onto all-fours. he’s halfway through starting to crawl towards Clint when the older man says, “Bullseye.” It’s his safeword, and Pietro knows it is. They’ve had that conversation, too (Pietro’s safeword is _bomba_ , and the practiced familiarity he says it with is saddening).

Pietro stops moving, but he stays on his hands and knees, seemingly frozen in place. His head is down, eyes fixed on the floor, so Clint can’t see his face, can’t attempt to glean any information from his expression. He doesn’t ask Pietro to stand, or question why he’s on his knees - instead, he sinks down to the ground himself, crossing his legs as he settles in front of Pietro.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs, keeping his voice soft and even. “How are you doing?” It’s the least accusatory questions he can think of, the one that PIetro is least likely to take offense to. Whatever headspace the kid is in, it’s not a good one, and Clint doesn’t want to push any buttons he doesn’t have to.

In response, Pietro trembles, all the way from his shoulders down to his hips. “I am submitting,” he says, and Clint’s heart shatters.

“I’m gonna touch you, okay?”

Clint waits for Pietro’s shaky nod to reach out and tug the younger man close. It takes some awkward maneuvering, but Clint manages to get Pietro situated in his lap, tucked up against his chest, held there firmly by Clint’s arms around his slim torso. Turning his head, Clint rests his cheek against Pietro’s messy, white hair, and smooths his hand soothingly down the kid’s back. The fact that Pietro is allowing himself to be comforted is a step in the right direction, but the ‘submission,’ that’s about forty-five steps back.

After a few minutes, Clint makes a soft sound, moving to press hi slips to the crown of Pietro’s head. “Submission,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “isn’t about making yourself small, or making yourself _less_. It’s about trusting someone to take care of you, to give you what you need. If you don’t want to kneel for me, sweetheart, then you don’t need to. I don’t need you on your knees to do a scene, and I don’t want you there if it’s going to make you that uncomfortable.”

Pietro nods against his chest and doesn’t make a move to pull away. 

Clint doesn’t, either.

* * *

Pietro never says he doesn’t like to kneel. It’s actually on his list of likes, the one they compiled before the scene, and he doesn’t try to amend that afterwards. Clint doesn’t ask about it. He does, however, bring it up a few days later, before the second try at a scene. 

“I think I’m going to ask you to kneel,” he says. “Do you remember your safeword?”

“Yes,” Pietro replies, and it doesn’t escape Clint’s attention that Pietro doesn’t say the word. Like everything else the kid does, Clint’s sure it’s deliberate, a ‘yes, I remember my safeword, and no, I’m not using it.’

“Will you kneel for me?” Clint asks softly, and the atmosphere in the room shifts immediately, from casual and chatty to focused and intense. Pietro looks up at him, eyes narrowed, holding Clint’s gaze for a long moment before he nods, briefly, almost to himself.

“Yes,” he says again, and then slowly, deliberately, he sinks to his knees in front of Clint. This time, there’s no tension, no clenched fists hanging at Pietro’s sides. He doesn’t look _comfortable_ , exactly, but he doesn’t look upset, either.

“Beautiful,” Clint murmurs. The kid’s eyes jerk up, wide and surprised, to focus on Clint’s face. “You are,” he continues. “Absolutely gorgeous like this, on your knees for me just because I asked. Beautiful. _Thank you_.”

The pink tint that spread over Pietro’s cheeks is quickly becoming one of Clint’s favorite reactions to elicit from the younger man. The blush suits his pale skin, and Clint finds himself wondering if it spreads over Pietro’s chest, too. For the time being, though, he files the thought away. This scene is about getting the kid comfortable, familiar with the process, not about Clint indulging the rapidly growing desire to see what Pietro’s O-face looks like.

“Close your eyes,” Clint says, and Pietro’s eyes slip shut almost immediately. He wobbles on his knees, balance compromised, so Clint steps closer and slides his hand in Pietro’s hair, half to steady him and half to give him the reassurance that Clint hasn’t, _isn’t_ going anywhere. “So good for me,” Clint praises gently, and when Pietro shudders this time, it’s like all the tension just evaporates from his body. He slumps forward against Clint’s leg, cheek resting against the denim as he sighs, soft and content. He mumbles something, but the sound is muffled both by Clint’s pants and Pietro’s own subdued voice. “What was that, sweetheart?”

Pietro hums, and Clint can feel the vibrations against his thigh, through his jeans. “‘s nice,” he slurs, and Clint would be worried about how far under his is just from kneeling and praise, but he knows the kid’s history. He’s just happy Pietro trusts him enough to let himself have this, to let Clint guide him down to where he needs to be.

“You’re perfect, baby. Absolutely perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pietro is a shit and Clint's patience is never-ending...
> 
> In other news, I GOT A JOB! A real-life, real person, full time job. I'm excited and terrified in equal measure. Still gonna write, though, so help me out and vote [here](https://forms.gle/JKhe93SNzTEfezbm8) to help me decide on my next project.


	5. Chapter 5

Pietro’s submission is beautiful, achingly so.

It’s also tempting beyond all fucking measure.

* * *

There’s a reason an instructional contract usually involves an instructor of the same alignment as the student. It’s not to say the bond formed there isn’t intense - it is, but it’s different than the ones that come about in recreational contracts. There are also different terms involved, different safeguards in place. When instructional contracts end, they _end_ : renewal is very rarely an option either party is interested in. Payment is exchanged, and the participants go their separate ways.

Recreational contracts have end dates, too, but the tone of them is different. They prompt discussions about the good, the bad, the _future_ \- whether there is going to be one, and if so, what the parameters of it will be.

Clint’s a month and a half into his contract with Pietro (and Strucker, because reminding himself of that helps keep some of his wayward desires in check). And he’s doing a good job of keeping himself from getting lost. Pietro isn’t his submissive, and he reminds himself of that as often as he needs to. More often than not, it’s right after a scene, when Pietro is quiet and needy and all Clint feels is protective and fond. _Not my submissive. Not mine._

And it works, right up until it doesn’t.

They haven’t had sex yet, in any form, because Clint knows himself. He knows he’s treading on thin ice as it is, just with allowing the kid to submit to him at all. He could tell Pietro no, go back to a completely educational relationship, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle the guilt that would come with seeing Pietro high-strung and on edge again, just to keep himself from getting attached. So when the kid comes to him, nervous but determined, Clint can’t find it in himself to offer up a rejection. 

“I’m not fucking you,” he says, but the look on Pietro’s face tells him the younger man heard the unspoken ‘yet’. But the kid doesn’t push. He respects Clint’s boundaries, and even though the twinkle in his eye is a little amused, it’s the only indication that he’s anything but completely on board with Clint’s pronouncement. And he doesn’t as what they _will_ be doing, either - he just nods and grins and looks so fucking eager that Clint thinks _fuck it_.

He kisses Pietro, hard, pushing him up against the closed door. It’s such a selfish action, one that Clint will feel guilty for later, but it’s worth it for the way Pietro moans into his mouth, arches under his hands, desperate and open and wanting. It’s beautiful, and all it does is feed the addiction Clint is developing.

Pietro, who still has the sensitivity of youth, is hard in his pants when Clint pulls away from the kiss. His hips buck up at nothing and he whines, once, before cutting the sound off firmly. “Tonight?” he asks, hopeful.

Clint shakes his head. “Tomorrow,” he says casually, like he doesn’t care about when he’ll be able to get his hands on Pietro. “And no getting off without my permission, understand?”

Pietro’s eyes go incredibly wide, and for a moment Clint worries he’s overstepped, or maybe accidentally found one of Pietro’s dislikes. But the look of shock on the kid’s face quickly melts into something else, something that’s all lust and want and arousal. “Not without your permission,” he repeats, and it takes every ounce of Clint’s self-control not to kiss him again, to shove Pietro back up against the wall and maybe push a hand down his too-tight jeans and jerk him off right there.

He doesn’t, but in this case, it really is the thought that counts. Clint’s _fucked_.

* * *

“ _You should cancel the contract._ ”

Clint bristles. Natasha’s right (she’s always right, piece of shit), but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it. “I’m not going to,” he says, and Natasha’s sigh comes in staticky and broken over the phone.

“ _I know. I wouldn’t, either._ ”

That, at least, makes Clint feel a little better. Natasha’s not blaming him for the situation, or shaming him for catching feelings which he absolutely, positively has not business catching.

“ _Is Maximoff…?_ ”

“Normal attachment,” Clint responds, shaking his head. “He’s eager to further the relationship, in the context of our ‘new’ contract.”

“ _And the old contract?_ ”

Clint hesitates. He hasn’t forgotten why he’s here, why Strucker initiated the contract in the first place. He’s supposed to be teaching Pietro how to be a Dom, helping him to get comfortable enough to pass his certification. And he is, slowly. The kid needed to trust him before they could do anything, and then he needed to feel comfortable in his skin, in his submission. 

“We’re getting there,” he says noncommittally. “It’s… I can’t submit for him, Nat. To help him practice.”

Natasha hums. “ _You’ll figure something out,_ ” she says, and her voice is so assured that Clint actually believes her for a moment, actually believes that he’ll be able to get the kid through this.

“ _Don’t fuck it up_ ,” Natasha adds helpfully. Clint groans. 

She hangs up on him, because even she has limits on how much she’ll listen to him complain. Clint still appreciates her. Her contract with Wanda finished not long after he arrived, but having her there, even just for a few days, was helpful. Clint’s convinced that Natasha is his platonic soul mate, the fire that complements his calm. He loves her, plain and simple.

Thinking about his relationship with Nat is easy - it’s familiar territory, and Clint’s pretty confident he’s not going to fuck anything up too badly with her. His relationship with Pietro, on the other hand… despite Natasha’s confidence in him, Clint’s still worried, still concerned that he isn’t going to be able to help the kid as much as he wants.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he mutters to himself. “Get your shit together, Barton.”

* * *

He does get his shit together. By the time the next evening rolls around, Clint’s feeling a lot better about… well, everything. He has a plan for their scene, a plan to help Pietro practice dominance, and a plan to keep himself from getting any more attached to the kid. They’re good, solid plans that Nat would be okay with endorsing, and that’s a metric that Clint considers more than worthy.

Eight o’clock rolls around, and Clint’s prepared. Some of the things he has in mind they haven’t discussed explicitly, but he’s developed a decent level of trust in Pietro. He trusts that the kid knows his limits, trusts that he knows Clint doesn’t actually want to push them. He trusts the kid to speak up with something isn’t sitting well with him.

There’s a desk in the room Strucker set him up in, and that’s where Clint lays out the supplies for the night: lube, because lube is always a good idea; two bottles of water; various snacks; a basin full of soapy water; and one pair of leather gloves. 

Clint _loves_ those gloves. He’s had them for years, and the leather is soft and supple, lovely to feel both against his own hands and someone else’s skin. For Clint, the gloves are like a uniform, like the collars that many submissives like to wear. They help him get settled into the right headspace for a scene, into the mindset of being in control. Responsible.

There’s a knock on the door, and Clint abandons the desk for a moment to go over to it. Pietro is waiting on the other side, shifting nervously on his feet. And Clint knows, at this point, that babying the kid does more harm than good, so he steps back and nods at the floor in front of the desk. “Strip and kneel,” he says, closing the door behind Pietro. Then he turns back to the desk, back to the gloves, with the expectation that Pietro is going to obey. 

Clint only uses this particular pair for scenes, but he still sets about cleaning them. He dips a rag into the basin of soapy water and uses it to wipe down the leather, careful to get into every crease and seam, making the material wet and shiny. Immediately afterwards, he dries them off with a clean rag and, satisfied with his work, tosses the rags in the hamper and drains the basin in the sink. When he returns to the desk, he’s already feeling… under, a little bit, slipping easily into the headspace where his entire focus is on his partner, on the scene. 

Pietro is on his knees, naked, looking up at him, and already he’s showing signs of being under, too; his expression is glazed, his posture is relaxed, and if Clint allows himself to look he can see the kid is already half hard, just from being put on his knees and ignored. As always, Clint’s amazed by Pietro’s responsiveness, his bonafide eagerness for their scenes. 

Taking the clean gloves in his hands, Clint slides them on, flexing his fingers just to hear the leather creak. The soft sound makes Pietro shudder, makes his pupils blow wide and almost eclipse his irises. He’s absolutely breathtaking on his knees, and Clint takes a moment just to admire the view. Just a moment, though, because Pietro starts to shift, rolling his shoulders back and ducking his head as pink blooms across his cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” Clint murmurs, knowing that it won’t help with the blushing situation, but wanting the kid to hear it all the same. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“I’d feel better if you touched me,” Pietro mutters, but before Clint can comment on the inadequacy of that answer, he sighs. “Good. Fine. Nervous?”

Clint nods. “Nervousness is normal. This is something new. Do you remember your safeword?”

“Yes,” Pietro says. “I haven’t forgotten it since last time, you know.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “We don’t have to do this,” he says. “If you’re not ready to…”

“Please?”

The arrogance, the annoyance, all that is gone from Pietro’s voice. The question, the single _word_ , it’s sincere. It’s not Pietro begging, but it is him asking for something he wants without deflecting, and Clint is _proud_.

Clint grins, slow and languid, and Pietro shivers. “Are you going to behave?” he asks, and Pietro nods so fast and jerky Clint is actually concerned for a moment. 

“Yes, _yes_ , I’ll behave. I promise. I’ll be good.”

Reaching out, Clint presses the tip of his index finger against the kid’s lips. “Suck,” he says, and Pietro's eyes go impossibly wide and dark, and he looks so fucking good that Clint decides he can forgive the way that Pietro hesitates, tongue darting out to trace the seam of the leather on his index finger. He can feel the heat of Pietro's tongue through the material, and that doesn't do anything to help quell the steady arousal building low in his stomach.

With a glance up to Clint's face, Pietro leans forward, taking Clint's two gloved fingers in his mouth. His eyelids flutter a little, so Clint reaches up with his other hand to gently cup the kid's cheek before sliding his fingers up into that shock of white hair. “Good boy,” Clint murmurs, just to watch Pietro shudder at the praise. 

He wants to slide his fingers deep into the younger man, open him up with the leather, get him to push back against his hand and fuck himself on the gloves. Clint knows how they feel, knows that the texture makes every sensation that much more intense, that much more present, and he wants to take Pietro out of his own head, wants to make him focus just on what Clint's offering him. Later, he thinks. Right now, he has other plans.

Turning his hand, Clint presses the pads of his fingers against Pietro’s tongue. The kid responds immediately, slipping his tongue between Clint’s fingers and sucking, his eyes flickering up to Clint’s face to openly search for approval. And Clint gives it to him. Smiling, he nods gently, squeezing his fingers in Pietro’s hair. “I’m going to have you suck me off,” he murmurs, and Pietro turns into a mess of reactions. 

He moans, first and foremost, the sound muffled by Clint’s fingers. HIs hips jerk forward seemingly of their own accord, and when Clint glances down, he can see the younger man’s cock, hard and leaking, jutting up against his stomach. He slips his fingers out of Pietro’s mouth, allowing himself to brush a spit-slick digit over the kid’s lip. “Undo my pants,” he says, and Pietro looks up, swallows, and then scrambles to obey.

His hands shake as he pops the button on Clint’s pants, but then he tugs the zipper down with eager, determined hands. Clint hums his approval, and nods when Pietro looks up at him, questioning. “All the way,” he says, and Pietro responds by grabbing his pants and pulling down _hard_.

Clint’s not tenting his underwear quite yet, but he’s not in his twenties anymore, either. Pietro doesn’t seem to mind, going by the way he’s all but straining forward, inches from Clint’s groin. The older man tightens his grip in the white strands, guiding Pietro forward just a hair. “Now the underwear,” he says. “Slowly, got it?”

“Got it,” Pietro answers immediately. And, obediently, his hands come up slowly, fingers hoking under the waistband of Clint’s briefs before they carefully drag them down to join Clint’s pants on the floor.

Clint’s not small, but he’s not hard yet, either, hanging comfortable between his thighs. But Pietro’s still staring like it’s a fucking buffet spread out just for him, and, well, there’s only so much teasing Clint is willing to dish out. “Slowly,” he reminds him, before gently nudging Pietro’s head forward. Not pushing, not forcing, just guiding. “Go ahead.”

Like he did with Clint’s fingers, Pietro hesitates for a moment, eyes wide and dark as he stares directly in front of him, directly at Clint’s groin. Then, ever so tentatively, he leans forward, and his tongue darts out past his lips to lick a blazingly hot stripe up Clint’s cock. Then he glances up and smiles, like he knows exactly what kind of pretty picture he makes, before leaning forward ever so slightly and taking Clint into his mouth. It’s just the head, and Pietro’s pretty pink lips are barely sealed around the glans, but Clint still feels his fingers clenching in the kid’s hair. He hasn’t been with anything since he started this contract, and not for a few weeks before that, either, and having someone else touching him, having Pietro’s _mouth_ on him, it’s more intense than he expected. 

“Easy,” he says, surprised at how steady his voice is given how _unsteady_ he’s feeling. “Nice and slow, don’t get fancy.” To punctuate his words, he holds Pietro’s head still when the younger man tries to bob down, to slide more of Clint’s cock into his mouth. Clint raises an eyebrow, and Pietro drops his gaze. 

He listens, though, doesn’t try to take Clint all the way down his throat. He _does_ do something with his tongue that has Clint squirming, hardening fully in Pietro’s mouth as the boy licks at the pre spilling front his slit. And Clint’s a patient man, he really is, but he’s wound so tightly that he can’t drag this out for very long.

“All right,” Clint says after a few minutes of Pietro’s mouth on him, sweet and gentle. He leaves his fingers in Pietro's hair, just letting them rest, not guiding him anymore. “Finish me, sweetheart.”

Pietro all but throws himself into the task, and Clint has to slam a hand forward against the desk to stop his knees from going out, because all the tentativeness that Clint brought out by telling the kid ‘ _slowly_ ’ is gone. There's warm, wet suction around his cock, and Pietro's bobbing his head earnestly, messily, spit running down his chin and neck. His lips are stretched wide, his cheeks flushed, and he's such a goddamn pretty picture that Clint nearly comes right there and then. 

“That's a good boy,” he breathes, and Pietro _moans_ , his eyelids fluttering for a moment. And that's it, that's all he can take. Clint's gone, his orgasm punched out of him hard, and he's coming in Pietro's mouth while the kid tries to swallow around him, milking him inadvertently. And Clint's head is hanging forward, so he's able to see it when Pietro doesn't quite manage to swallow everything and some of Clint's come escapes through the corners of his mouth.

He's fucking gorgeous.

He cards his fingers through Pietro's hair, before gently sliding his hips back, even if the whine the kid gives makes his cock twitch a little. Then he's looking up at Clint, eyes wide, and there's still come on his chin and his lips are swollen and he's _debauched_ , and he licks his lips and coughs before biting his lip.

“Your good boy, sir?” he asks, and his voice is rough with arousal and the strain and something else, something unsure, and Clint immediately nods, reaching down to wipe the corner of Pietro's mouth with his thumb. 

“Yeah, my good boy,” he says, before offering Pietro his gloved thumb to clean. “Mine. My very, very good boy. You were perfect, sweetheart.”

Pietro hums happily around his thumb, and he's still obviously hard, but he's not asking for anything, not making any move toward taking care of it himself, like he's content to just sit there and suck on Clint's fingers. And that, Clint thinks, definitely deserves a reward. 

“Up on the bed,” he murmurs, and Pietro obeys immediately, getting to his feet and walking over to the bed. He sits down and then looks over at Clint expectantly, and Clint's so fucking glad that he didn't crawl, that they've gotten past that. Pietro's being ridiculously good for him, and yeah, he definitely wants to reward that.

“On your back,” he says, tucking himself back into his pants. “Let your legs hang off on the bed, like... yeah, baby, just like that.” He smiles when Pietro obeys, and then walks over to the bed, spreading his legs and bending down over the younger man, sliding a hand up his chest to tweak a nipple gently. Pietro arches into the touch and moans, but his hands stay on the bed, and fuck, Clint is so proud.

“You've been so good tonight,” he murmurs, bracing himself on the bed with one hand. He pauses, and then pulls the glove off his right hand with his teeth, before sliding it down to wrap loosely around Pietro's hard, leaking cock. The kid jolts like someone shocked him, and it's good, it's so good, because it's the first time Clint's touched him with the bare skin of his hand tonight, and Pietro's moaning like Clint's got a finger pressed up right against his prostate. “So good for me. I'm so proud of you. I'm going to get you off now, okay?”

Pietro tries to say something, but it comes out a garbled mess, so Clint shushes him softly before tightening his grip just a hair. The head of the boy's cock is a dark purple, and Clint knows his touch has to be just on the right side of painful, but Pietro's taking it beautifully, his head thrown back and his fingers fisting in the sheets. 

Flicking his thumb over the head, Clint spreads precome down the length of Pietro's cock, making the slide that much easier. The kid's leaking enough that his strokes are smooth, easy, and he's obviously trying to stave off his orgasm, because his eyes are screwed shut and he's _not_ trying to thrust up into Clint's hand, and it takes Clint a moment to realize it's because _he hasn't given Pietro permission to come yet_.

“Oh, sweet boy,” he murmurs, making Pietro's cock jerk in his hand. “You can come whenever you want. Go ahead.”

He manages maybe another full stroke before Pietro's going stiff under him and crying out, spurting all over his stomach and Clint's hand. Clint just strokes him through it, watching as the kid's face goes lax from pleasure, how his body relaxes a moment later, lethargy hitting him hard. And he's gorgeous like that, too, flushed and limp, squirming just a little because he's sensitive and Clint's hand is still on him.

“That was perfect,” Clint says, drinks in the little sigh of pleasure that Pietro makes. He wipes his hand on the sheet, and then crawls up to lay down next to the kid and pull him into his arms, smoothing a hand down his back reflexively. “That was amazing, sweetheart. You did so well.”

The kid hums, his eyes already sliding shut as he turns to nuzzle into Clint’s chest. Later, when he’s able to do more than just curl into Clint and take his body warmth, Clint will make him eat and drink, and they’ll talk. About the scene, of course, but also about the future, about what comes next, because Pietro is golden in his submission, and Clint’s _fucked_ on not getting attached, but he can still work on making sure the kid is ready to get his certification.

Once he’s sure Pietro is asleep, he reaches for his phone, dialing a familiar number before pressing it up to his ear. It rings for a long minute before the person on the other end picks up, voice gruff and irritated.

“ _The fuck do you want this late at night?_ ”

Clint sighs into the phone, looking down at the sleeping boy next to him. “I need a huge goddamn favor, Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, normal [poll](https://forms.gle/94EJcReRKSxQa13x8) stuff. There's another tie, so fix that. No ties. 
> 
> Also, this is your heads-up reminder that Pietro is a full-on adult in this fic. He's got a weird and wonky past and could probably win at trauma bingo, but he's able to be responsible for himself, and he knows his limits. Everything is consensual. Very, _very_ consensual.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter contains two things you might possibly not want to read.
> 
> 1) A scene with Pietro and Bucky. There's no sex, but I know that's not what y'all signed up for, so here's your warning.  
> 2) Domdrop. It can read a little like a panic/anxiety attack, or like dissociation. And I know it can be triggering for people, so please take care of yourselves!

Clint doesn’t like asking for favors. He doesn’t like owing people (he remembers, a little too vividly, how some of the darker characters he used to run with would collect on debts they were owed). And while he knows that none of his friends are going to kneecap him, or take one of his kidneys as means of repayment, old habits die hard. And that makes _needing_ a favor from Bucky even more frustrating.

“You’re lucky Steve is a magnanimous son of a bitch, you know that?”

Bucky is poking, prodding, picking at Clint’s veneer like only he and Nat can do. At work, it’s a necessary evil: Clint has a hard time saying no to any contract, so Bucky digs at him until he can find out Clint’s true feelings about it, one way or another. In this situation, though… Bucky’s not looking for information on Clint. He’s looking for information on Pietro, and while Clint _understands_ why, he still feels protective, almost angry on Pietro’s behalf. “Steve’s always magnanimous,” he says, dryly. “I’m just lucky some of that seems to be rubbing off on you.”

The opening is there, and Clint expects Bucky to take it, but instead he sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I am postponing my first long-term contract in _seven years_ for you, Barton. I could be in Steve’s apartment right now. He bought a spider gag for me. So I’m giving up getting throat-fucked by a god of a man to be here in some rich asshole’s house waiting to sub for another sub while you talk about Steve _rubbing off on me_!”

Most of Bucky’s indignation is for show, and Clint knows that. There’s no fire in his eyes, no threat in his voice, and he wouldn’t have come in the first place if he hadn’t actually wanted to help. But even still, Clint can’t help but feel a little guilty, especially considering the fact that he’s been not-so-subtly trying to get Steve and Bucky together for years. “I owe you one,” he says, voice quiet and sincere. “And I appreciate this. Really.”

“You owe me a fucking lot more than one,” Bucky grouses, but there’s no anger in his expression. “So. You gonna introduce me to this kid or what?”

* * *

The introduction goes about as well as Clint expects it to.

Pietro and Bucky are both rough in their own ways, both of them submissives who don’t have a problem cursing out a Dominant (Clint, specifically), if that Dominant gets on their nerves. They have pasts they don’t like to talk about and scars that show why, and they both carry themselves like they’re the greatest thing since sliced fucking bread. The two of them are very, very similar, and each of those similarities provides a new opportunity for them to clash.

When Pietro walks into the room, Clint’s room, Bucky looks him up and down and sighs, shaking his head. “He’s _pretty_ ,” he says, like someone would say _he’s old_ or _he’s goddamn fucking ugly_. “Why is your type the _pretty_ ones, Barton?”

Pietro bristles, because of course he does, his shoulders rolling back as he takes a step towards Bucky. “Your problem is that I’m prettier than you?” he asks, and that’s another quality the two of them share: picking fights out of absolutely nothing. “Out of all of this, _that’s_ your issue?”

Bucky waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know your sob story, kid. I’m the one who picked you out of the slush pile and put you on blondie’s desk, here. So, you’re welcome.”

For one brief, terrifying moment, Clint thinks the kid is going to throw a punch. He’s close enough to Bucky to do it, and Clint knows that slim figure hides quite a bit of strength. Pietro is more than capable of breaking a nose, if he wants to. And Bucky is more than capable of putting up a damn good bit of resistance, and Clint is just _one person_. But Pietro doesn’t take a swing. Instead, he fixes Bucky with a sharp, assessing look. “I’m not a Dom,” he says.

Bucky snorts, says, “No shit,” and holds out his hand. “But tonight, you’re going to be. All right?”

Pietro reaches out, clasping Bucky’s hand. “All right,” he says. And just like that, the tension in the air evaporates - Bucky actually leans close to the kid, throwing his arm over Pietro’s shoulder, and then the both of them turn to look at Clint expectantly.

“What’s the plan, _sir_?” Bucky asks, and Clint only regrets asking for his help a little bit.

The question is facetious, but Clint answers it anyway. “One scene for now, to test out the waters. Nothing too fancy, nothing too intense. Pietro just needs to be comfortable with taking you down, and hopefully we can do that without either of you dropping.”

“Without Barnes dropping,” Pietro corrects. “He is doing me a favor. The least I can do is try _not_ to make him miserable. I can handle a drop if it means getting… my certification.” Clint hears what Pietro didn’t say, what he _almost_ said: out. Away.

“Pretty _and_ self-sacrificing,” Bucky says. “You really know how to choose them, Barton.”

Clint takes a deep, steadying breath, and doesn’t tell Bucky to shut up.

Pietro and Bucky are similar in so many ways, but they’re also different in just as many. Pietro likes assurance, likes praise, likes softness and comfort and being cared for. He likes for his rough edges to be smoothed down, not ignored or covered up, but lovingly healed. Pietro takes comfort in _comfort_ , and Bucky…

“They’re going to set the terms for the scene,” Bucky says. “So, really, you need to be prepared for what they throw at you. It won’t be too crazy, so no blood or body mods, but you’ll probably have to show that you can use some sort of striking implement. And they’re gonna test you on how you respect a safeword when you’re in your headspace, and how you respect limits, and your general comfort level with being in a scene with someone. Obviously, no one is perfectly comfortable engaging with a stranger, so don’t worry too much about that side of it.” Pausing, Bucky thrusts a flogger into Pietro’s hands. “Personally, my experienced ass is a little terrified of your inexperienced hands getting anywhere near a cane or a crop, so we’re gonna go with a flogger, and you’re _not_ going to put your back into it. Understood?”

Pietro nods, pale and shaky as he grips the flogger, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. If he does, then it doesn’t seem that he particularly cares. “Good,” he continues. “Next is attitude. _You_ are in charge here, kid. And you’ll be in charge there, too. Act like it. You don’t need to throw your weight around, but acting like you’re anything other than terrified would be a good start.” He glances down, finally seeming to notice Pietro’s white-knuckled grip on the flogger. “It’s not going to hurt you. It’s going to hurt me: that’s the point. This particular submissive likes the sting and the burn, so you’re gonna have to come to terms with that real quick and give it to me.”

Clint aches to step in, to save Pietro from the obvious discomfort he’s feeling, but that won’t do anyone any good in the long run. And he trusts Bucky not to push the kid too far, to not give him more than he can truly handle, but it’s still not easy to watch Pietro hold the whip like it’s a snake. Clenching his teeth so hard his jaw hurts, Clint stays in the corner, crossing his arms on his chest to stop from reaching out for the kid.

After a breath, Pietro nods, steeling himself, shifting his grip on the flogger. “You clearly have no problem asking for what you want,” the kid says, and his voice is quiet and considerate. “Do you find that being demanding works?”

“I find it works when I’m not getting what I want,” Bucky replies, crossing his arms. “And right now you’re definitely not giving me…”

“ _Hush_.”

Pietro glances over at Clint as soon as he utters the command, and his expression is somewhere between unsure and defiant. And Clint gets it, because the dynamics in the room are all off the board - Clint’s the only Dominant, but he’s also the only one not involved, there simply to guide Pietro if the kid needs guiding. He’s a wallflower, and Pietro’s in charge, and it’s _wrong wrong wrong_ and he’s pretty sure the kid can feel it, too.

Something in Clint’s expression must answer Pietro’s unasked question, because the kid turns away from him, back to Bucky, and when he speaks his voice is strong and even. “Shirt off. On the bed, on your stomach, hands on the headboard. We’ll use the stoplight system, and you will address me as ‘sir.’ Is that understood?”

For a moment, Bucky doesn’t answer. He doesn’t do anything at all, just holds Pietro’s gaze, firm and unwavering. Then he sighs, relaxing a little in his stance. It’s not quite a slip into subspace, but it’s acceptance all the same. “You’ve taught him well,” he says, glancing in Clint’s direction, before sliding his gaze back to Pietro. “Understood, sir.”

The kid nods at the bed wordlessly, and Bucky moves to obey the command, stripping off his shirt before climbing onto the sheets and laying himself down. As Pietro moves toward the bed, Clint starts to feel more wrong, like he’s trespassing, like he doesn’t belong. Like he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to. A scene is intimate, whether there’s sex or not, and standing in the background watching his student take down his assistant feels like a huge breach of privacy, all the way around. 

Natasha would say it’s jealousy, possessiveness, and not so much Clint’s concern for protectig every’s privacy. In all honesty, she’d probably be right. So it’s a good thing that Bucky is here, to remind Clint that Pietro isn’t _his_ , that their contract isn’t ownership and it means nothing when it’s over. 

The scene itself goes well and simply enough. Clint doesn’t pay as much attention as he should. His eyes never leave Pietro, but he isn’t always able to make them focus, making his vision blurry and imprecise and, honestly, Clint doesn’t really care. He doesn’t need to see how the kid’s arm moves when he brings the flogger down over Bucky’s back. He doesn’t need to see the expression on Pietro’s face (doesn’t need to see his attention being focused on someone else, even though he knows how fucked up and selfish that thought is). And he certainly doesn’t need to see Bucky getting into it, back arching with every stroke, because he can certainly _hear_ the other man, can hear every single muffled groan and whimper.

Clint’s not sure how long he zones out for, how long he watches them without seeing anything, but when he comes back to himself Pietro is checking on Bucky, applying cream to the bruises already forming on his back. Clint’s still in the corner, seated, and the feeling of _wrongness_ is still there, even now that they’ve finished.

Bucky stands with a groan, different from the ones he was making at Pietro’s hand, but the sound still grates on Clint’s ears. Turning, the brunet drops his gaze to Clint, and his eyeline feels accusatory. 

“Well, shit,” Bucky says. “You okay, boss?”

Clint’s _fine_. He nods and stands as well, and purposefully doesn’t look over to where Pietro is waiting near the bed. His head is swimming, and he doesn’t trust himself not to do something stupid, like yell at Bucky for existing or drag Pietro into his arms. He just needs to get out of the room and get settled and shake the fuzzy feeling in his head and he’ll be _fine_.

“Easy, there,” Bucky says, and all of a sudden there’s a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. When he tries to pull away, Bucky’s grip tightens, just a hair. Clint barely resists the urge to snarl and, _oh_ , it makes sense now. He knows what’s happening. “C’mon, Barton,” Bucky says, gently. “You’re in a bad way. Sit back down?”

Bucky phrases like a question, a _please_ , not an order, and it’s stupid but that makes it easier for Clint to listen. Slowly, he backs up, sitting back down in the chair and lacing and unlacing his fingers in his lap while he waits for his system to reboot and realize nothing is fucking _wrong_.

“‘m sorry,” he mutters, and even in the state he’s in, he knows he deserves Bucky’s derisive little snort.

“Because you totally chose to drop, right?” Bucky shakes his head, and it seems like he’s going to add something else, but he’s cut off when Pietro appears between them, blocking Clint’s line of vision.

“You’re dropping?” the kid asks, and his expression is openly worried, brow creased and eyes tight. “I don’t… what do I need to do? I didn’t know Doms _could_ drop. Should I…”

“Take a breath, kid.” Bucky’s voice is calm and even, and Clint appreciates it. “He’ll be fine. Same protocol applies, like for a subdrop: fluids, comfort, rest.” He pauses. “I’d offer to help out, but uh… I’m kind of part of the problem, here. Can you handle this?”

Pietro nods, forcefully. He says, “Yes,” too, and Clint can’t help but feel proud, albeit a little distantly, that the kid remembers how important words are. “Yes. I can take care of him.”

Clint thinks that he needs to apologize to Pietro, too. Maybe later, when just keeping his eyes open feels less like an impossible task. Realizing there’s no actual reason to keep trying, Clint lets his eyes slide shut, leaning back against the chair. He doesn’t move, not even when the door clicks open and shut, signalling Bucky’s departure.

“Clint?”

Pietro’s voice is small, soft, but Clint’s eyes still snap open - his name on the kid’s lips always pulls his attention. And Pietro still looks worried, but he’s holding a bottle of water and a change of clothes, Clint’s clothes, that Clint doesn’t remember him getting, so he guesses the kid is a little more put-together than he looks.

“‘m fine,” the older man says. “‘s my fault. Felt it coming. Should’ve left, didn’t mean to ruin…” He trails off, waves vaguely at the bed. “Sorry.”

“Idiot,” Pietro mutters, and Clint adds another item to the ‘Bucky and Pietro’s Similarities’ mental list he has going: both of them see through Clint’s bullshit far too easily. But apparently, Pietro is more patient than Bucky is, because he drops the pile of clothes on Clint’s lap instead of taking off and leaving. “Get changed,” he says. “And then go to bed.”

Clint nods and goes to stand, but Pietro’s hand on his shoulder stops him. It doesn’t irritate him as much as Bucky’s hand did, and he doesn’t try to shake it off. And that’s something he doesn’t want to think about, doesn’t want to deal with processing, because that’s wrong, too. “What?”

The kid smiles, and the gesture makes Clint’s shoulders slump a little. “Use your words,” he says. And then he adds, “Please?” like he’s expecting to have to convince Clint to communicate.

“You’d make a good Dom,” Clint says, without thinking. He’ll kick himself for it later, for complimenting the kid on something that obviously causes him no end of distress. But Pietro doesn’t seem to take offense to it, doesn’t close off or back away. He just smiles the same, soft smile, and shrugs one shoulder.

“You’d make a terrible submissive,” he answers, and Clint can’t help but bark out a short, harsh laugh. It’s true, and it’s the honesty that makes it so damn funny. It also eases some of the tension Clint’s carrying, makes his skin feel less like it’s too tight on his frame.

Sighing, Clint gets to his feet, murmuring, “I know, I know, clothes and bed,” when Pietro looks at him expectantly. The kid grins, bright and clear, and steps out of the way so Clint can move around him, but Clint doesn’t go to the door, or to the ensuite bathroom. He drops the clothes on the chair, and he’s got his shoes kicked off and his zipper halfway down before he realizes that stripping in front of Pietro might not be the best idea.

“I’m going to go get some snacks,” Pietro says, setting the water bottle down on the bed. He’s read the situation well, recognizing Clint’s problem and dealing with it without calling attention to it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes?”

“Okay,” Clint says, and he thinks, distantly, that Bucky was right. He has taught the kid well.

Pietro leaves the room and Clint strips down, setting aside his jeans and jacket in favor of the pair of well-worn sweatpants and loose-fitting t-shirt Pietro picked out for him. The world is still a little wrong, and Clint wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the next week, but he knows the kid is worried about him, knows that Pietro’s not going to _stop_ worrying about him until he’s convinced Clint is okay. So while he doesn’t get horizontal immediately, Clint does get into bed, purposefully not thinking about how Bucky occupied the same space just minutes before. 

Pietro returns some time later (transitions are still fuzzy for Clint, and he’s not sure if it’s been five breaths or fifty since the kid left the room). He smiles, genuinely, when he sees Clint on the bed, pleased that his directions were followed. _A great Dom_ , Clint thinks, but doesn’t say, because he can see the tension around Pietro’s eyes, even behind the smile. It’s wearing on the kid, having had to fill the wrong role earlier with Bucky and now, again, with Clint. But he still hands over the energy bar he brought up, and Clint still takes it with a small murmur of thanks.

“How’re you doing?” he asks, when Pietro takes a seat at the edge of the bed. And the kid waves a hand like he’s going to brush off the question, but Clint isn’t about to let him ignore his own well-being. “It’s a valid question, considering everything that’s happened. Dealing with a drop isn’t easy on either end.”

Pietro’s shoulders slump a little, and he shrugs, half heartedly. “Did I do well?” he asks, and there’s so much genuine uncertainty in his voice that Clint doesn’t resist the urge to reach out and pull the kid in close, folding their bodies together like interlocking pieces of some incredibly odd puzzle. He lays them down, the both of them, his chin resting on Pietro’s head and the food and water lying forgotten on the bedspread.

“You did _amazingly_ ,” Clint says. “Both in the scene, and in the aftercare. With Barnes and with me.”

Pietro hums, something like agreement, something like appreciation. And Clint feels more than a little appreciative, too - having the kid close, safe, knowing they’re both okay, it’s doing wonders for his mental state. He still needs a reset in the form of a good night’s sleep, but he’s less worried about doing something stupid because his brain is in fight-or-flight mode.

They lay there for a long few moments, long enough that Pietro’s breathing evens out and Clint thinks he’s asleep. That makes it all the more surprising when, suddenly, the kid sighs against his chest, leaning up to nudge his nose against Clint’s jaw. “You never asked why,” he says, and despite the lack of context, Clint knows exactly what he’s talking about, knows that there’s only one possible thing he _could_ be talking about.

“I don’t need to know why, kid.”

Pietro huffs, his breath hot against Clint’s neck. “I’m not a Dom,” he says, like Clint never said anything. “I… that’s obvious. I know. And I think Strucker knows, too. He used to say all the time that submissives are given too much freedom, that they need tighter leashes. That it’s in their nature to be lesser.” The kid shudders softly, and there’s no way for Clint to pull him in any closer, but he still tries, burying his nose in Pietro’s white hair. “And I couldn’t… if I don’t get certified as a Dom, he’ll never let me leave, and Wanda won’t leave without me because she’s an idiot and she’s too good of a sister. So I have to. I _have_ to.” He sniffs, and there’s a wetness on Clint’s neck now, too. “But it’s… it’s permanent, isn’t it? I won’t be able to… I’ll never get to change it.”

Clint strokes a hand down Pietro’s back and wishes he could reassure the kid, wishes he had something other than a harsh confirmation to answer him with. “Certifications are permanent,” he says, and his heart breaks when Pietro’s chest hitches with a sob. “But hey, sweetheart, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s a word on your ID card. It doesn’t control who you’re with, or what happens when you’re with them. That’s up to you and your partner to decide.”

Pietro huffs and doesn’t answer, and for once, Clint doesn’t demand words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, still with me?
> 
> All right. I asked, and you answered. By popular vote, my next fic is going to be “For I Am the Violence, the Riot, the Storm” (with 41% of the votes)which is a sequel to my much loved incubus!Jesse Overwatch [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587542). Then why is there still a [poll](https://forms.gle/8wyZyhVxmHj7RuuF7) you ask? Well, because there are brand-new options for my next endeavor. Brand-new! Go vote.
> 
> As you can see, this fic will now be eight chapters instead of seven. I had planned to include a lot in this update, but including it all was going to put me way over my ~3500 word count chapter goal/limit. So now you have two more chapters to look forward to before this story is over!


	7. Chapter 7

Afterwards, when it’s over, when Bucky has gone home and Clint doesn’t feel like the world is closing in on him anymore, he goes to the kid and apologizes, frankly and honestly, for dropping and for putting Pietro in that kind of situation. He thinks the apology is warranted, because Clint’s supposed to be the knowledgeable one - he’s supposed to have his head on straight enough to be able to avoid dropping, especially during a scene where he’s not even involved. Especially when he’s in a contract as important as this one.

After he apologizes, Pietro doesn’t talk to him for three days. No texts, no late-night visits to curl up against Clint’s side, no bratty remarks about the stash of snack food Clint has hidden away in his bag. Nothing, no contact, and after being inseparable for weeks, it’s a hard adjustment. It makes Clint realize, with a lurch, just how hard it’s going to be to actually adjust when he has to go home and leave the kid. Because Clint’s not counting the hours, but he is counting the days, and he’s got more fingers on his left hand than he’s got days left with the kid. 

Pietro stalks into his room on the fourth day, and Clint gets the message, loud and clear. _No more apologies_.

He still gets a look when he draws Pietro in close, nuzzling against his hair, and says, “Let me take care of you?”

Pietro mutters something under his breath, but he nods and says, “Will that get you to stop feeling guilty?”

 _No_ , Clint thinks, but out loud he says, “I’m over it.”

It’s clear Pietro doesn’t believe him, and Clint almost feels guilty for the obvious lie, but the kid doesn’t push. “Fine,” he says instead, stepping back far enough that he can look Clint in the eyes. “What did you have in mind for ‘taking care of me’?”

* * *

In Clint’s mind, there’s nothing quite as beautiful as submission. More specifically, there’s nothing quite as beautiful as _Pietro’s_ submission, especially when it comes hand-in-hand with lust and desire. And currently, both of them are experiencing an overload of both.

Pietro’s wrists are lashed to the headboard (and Clint says lashed, not tied, because _tied_ doesn’t convey the way his fingers are gripping the wooden slats, the way his back is arching, the way sweat is beading on his bare chest and dripping down over his ribs onto the sheets beneath him). He’s naked, hard, and he’s already come twice: once down Clint’s throat, and once across his own belly. The remnants of his second release are still on his skin, going tacky with exposure to the air. He’s fucking beautiful, and Clint is drinking in the sight greedily.

He reaches for a cloth and uses it to clean the worst of the mess off Pietro’s stomach, making the boy whine when the rough fabric strays too close to his over-sensitive dick. He only teases for a moment before setting the cloth aside - this session isn’t about pushing Pietro. It’s about giving the boy everything he needs, everything Clint’s been wanting to give him for months. It’s about a reward, and it’s about a goodbye, and Clint hopes he’ll be able to keep the bittersweet feeling out of it. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, and when Pietro’s body finally ceases some of its quaking. “It’s all right, sweetheart. We’ll take a little breather. How are you feeling?”

“Floaty,” Pietro replies, and that’s just about the best answer Clint could have hoped for. He smiles, and his hands don’t leave Pietro’s body while he gives him the break he promised - he slides his palms up and down Pietro’s legs, stroking his bare skin while the kid comes down a little off his high.

Just a little, though, because Clint’s nowhere near done with him. 

When Pietro starts squirming, subtly, under Clint’s palms, the older man shifts up to his knees, bracing his hands on the kid’s hips. It effectively pins Pietro to the bed, rendering the minute shifts of his limbs useless.

“Getting impatient?” Clint asks, and before Pietro can answer Clint slides one of his hands down, over the curve of Pietro’s hip to dip down between his legs. He ignores the dick that is slowly hardening against Pietro’s stomach, and instead presses his hand down lower, until one finger skirts right over the younger man’s entrance. 

Pietro bucks up at the touch, his eyes going almost comically wide. And then, almost of their own accord, his hips press _down_ , seeking the pressure Clint’s fingers can provide. Chuckling, the older man leans down, pressing a kiss to one jutting hip bone.

“You’ve been waiting a long time for this,” he says against Pietro’s skin. “A few more minutes won’t kill you, sweetheart. Just breathe, and be a good boy for me.”

And the kid whines, high-pitched and desperate, but he obeys and lets his body collapse back onto the bed, trusting Clint to decide what’s best, and when. And that’s beautiful too, the way Pietro is fighting against the way his body is trembling with need just to listen to Clint. 

“So good,” Clint murmurs. His lips trail lower as his finger continues to tease, his teeth leaving marks on the inside of Pietro’s thigh with the pad of his finger nudges at the younger man’s hole, deliberately soft and teasing. After a moment, he leans back, snagging the lube off the bedside table and pouring an absurd amount over his fingers. It drips between his fingers and onto the sheets, but Clint doesn’t care about the stain it’ll leave. At the moment, he really only cares about one thing. 

“Relax for me,” he says, and Pietro trembles before he obeys, letting the tension drain out of his limbs. Clint murmurs more praise, soft and sweet, and then he leans back down, his slick fingers dipping back between Pietro’s legs. “Safeword?” he asks.

“ _Bomba_ , I remember. I promise.”

And with that confirmation, Clint finally, _finally_ , slides one calloused finger into the kid. 

Pietro’s breath leaves him in a gasp, and he tenses so abruptly, so _intensely_ , that Clint groans, unable _not_ to imagine that tight heat around his cock. And that train of thought is dangerous, because it leads to wondering what Pietro is going to sound like when he’s actually stretched, when he’s got more than Clint’s single finger pressing into him. 

“Could you come like this?” Clint asks, and all he gets in response is a whine and a nod and Pietro’s cock jerking against his stomach. He grins at the sight, and then slowly, purposefully, curls his finger to press up against Pietro’s prostate.

He comes with a sob, and there’s more liquid leaking out the corners of Pietro’s eyes than there is out of his dick, but it’s not quite a dry orgasm. Not yet, anyway. But Clint’s not in a rush, and from the way Pietro’s breath is coming in hitching little gasps, he guesses the kid isn’t, either. “Easy,” he says gently, leaning down to press a kiss to Pietro’s throat. His finger stays firmly seated inside him, all the while. “Easy, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Clint lets him have a handful of breaths before he starts to move his hand again, pressing his finger to the side to allow another to slide in next to it, Pietro’s lax muscles and the abundance of lube making the movement easy and painless. It isn’t sensationless, though - Pietro sighs at the stretch, at the feeling of being full, and lets his eyes flutter shut delicately.

“Did you know you’re beautiful like this?” The question is rhetorical - Clint doesn’t expect an answer, no more than Pietro thinks he should offer up one. “Fucking gorgeous, sweetheart.”

Pietro makes a content little sound, far past the point of speech, now. He’s limp and lax and _happy_ , barely registering the compliments and praise beyond the fact that they’re in Clint’s voice. Dragging things out any longer won’t do him any good, though it is tempting to keep him this way, blissed out and sated and relaxed. Clint knows that the easiness won’t last forever, and realistically, it probably won’t even last the week.

Leaning down, he brushes the shell of Pietro’s ear with his lips, and the kid doesn’t even shudder at the gentle touch. “I’m going to fuck you now,” Clint says, and that pulls the smallest of reactions, a hitch of breath, from Pietro, but that’s all there is for a long moment. Then, after a long stretch, the kid sighs, licking his lips. 

“‘kay,” he murmurs.

Clint adds a third finger, gritting his teeth as Pietro takes all three of them in easily. He isn’t impatient after that, but he is eager, and his hands tremble for a moment as he tears open the condom and rolls it onto his dick. He’d love to fill the younger man up, to forget the barrier entirely, but being close like that, _vulnerable_ like that… that’s just going to set Clint up for a harder fall than he’s already in for.

Pietro’s so loose, so relaxed, that there’s barely any resistance when Clint lines himself up and pushes in. The slide is smooth, letting Clint press forward until his hips are flush with Pietro’s ass and he’s surrounded by intense heat. It’s all he can focus on: the heat of Pietro’s body, the way he’s welcomed inside. 

Pietro makes a noise, soft and plaintive, and Clint responds by grinding his hips forward another quarter of an inch. Even with the condom and his own self-control, Clint knows he’s not going to last as long as he would like. Pietro’s too pretty of a picture, spread out underneath him, and the buildup has been too much - Clint’s wanted this for too long.

His first thrust sends Pietro’s eyes falling open, and the second has a gasp falling from his lips. His dick is still soft against his stomach, but it twitches valiantly when the head of Clint’s cock nudges against Pietro’s prostate. Orgasm number 4, if it happens at all, is going to be dry and brief, but Pietro’s flying so high that Clint doubts he’d really mind.k 

And, in the end, he doesn’t mind. Pietro shudders when Clint comes, his muscles clenching from overstimulation. He doesn’t try to wiggle away, though - he just lays there, eyes droopy and expression content, while Clint collects himself and gets his breath back. 

“Color?” Clint asks, as he pulls out and disposes of the condom.

It takes Pietro a moment to respond. He licks his lips and swallows, blinking as his eyes come back into focus. His fingers flex, still held in place to the headboard by Clint’s knots. Then, slowly, he turns his head towards Clint, offering a soft smile.

“So, so green,” he says. And Clint is content.

* * *

Like all good things, their contract comes to an end. 

Strucker hands Clint his last check in person, though why he decides to forgo the direct deposit option that’s been working so well is a mystery. He shakes Clint’s hand, says, “Pleasure doing business with you, Barton,” and leaves Clint feeling somehow dirty. The check feels heavy in his pocket, and if it weren’t for the hefty sum written on it, Clint thinks he might shred it as soon as he got home.

Home. Home is no longer the bedroom next to Pietro’s. Home is his apartment once more, with his bed and his kitchen and the distinct lack of another person. At this point in a contract, Clint’s usually grateful to be going back to that. Now, though, the thought of turning the key in his lock brings a pang of sadness. 

It doesn’t help that, when he’s packing up his bag and getting his bike out of the garage, Pietro is nowhere to be found. He doesn’t come out when Strucker hands him the check, or when he gets onto his bike, or even when he revs the engine. And after that, there’s no reason for Clint to linger in the driveway, so he doesn’t.

He waves up at Pietro’s window, unsure if the kid is even there, if he’s even watching, and then pulls out of the driveway.

* * *

Clint takes exactly 0 days off, despite both Bucky and Natasha telling him off for it. He’s still got a job to do, and laying around at home isn’t going to help him get his spring back into his step. The only thing to do is carry on and hope that, eventually, Pietro will become a memory that Clint can revisit without feeling his chest tighten and his heart ache.

“You’re not supposed to fall in love on the job,” Bucky says one day, almost two weeks after the contract ended. Clint’s looking over one of his newest requests, for a young Dominant, already certified, who wants to learn about the dos and don’ts of bondage. It’s right up Clint’s alley, but he’s still just staring at it, pen in hand, the line for his signature still blank.

“You’re also not supposed to fall in love with a coworker,” Clint bites back, even though it’s not the same and they both know it. He doesn’t have to look up to see Bucky’s arched eyebrow as the man steps forward, dropping a pile of mail on his desk. “If you have a problem with how I handled the situation, you can…”

“Shove it up my ass?”

“...file a report,” Clint finishes, and then sighs. “Did you want something? I’m trying to work.”

Bucky makes a derisive noise that tells Clint exactly what he thinks about that excuse, but he still reaches out, pulling a letter out of the stack of mail. “Came in today,” he says, holding it out. “It’s the results of Maximoff’s certification test, so I thought I’d bring it in here ASAP. But if you’re going to be an ass about it…”

Clint snatches the letter, and Bucky turns and leaves, looking self-satisfied. He doesn’t hesitate to open the envelope, to scan the letter inside for the word he’s looking for. By the time he finds it, a cold sweat has broken out over his neck. Of course Pietro passed. He had to have passed. If he didn’t, Clint’s going to march his ass down to the facility himself and chew someone a fucking new one, because…

 _Approved_.

Clint blinks at the word. Under it is information about the test: when it took place, the administrator, the submissive partner, but Clint’s not looking at that. He’s just staring at that one word. _Approved_.

Pietro passed. 

Clint glances down at the date, and he can’t help but wince. The test was a week ago - Pietro would have found out immediately if he passed or not, and he has Clint’ number, so why hadn’t he called, or texted? Or something? Just a _hey, I passed!_ would have sufficed. 

Clint shuts the train of thought down. Pietro doesn’t owe him anything, not even a text message. They had an agreement, and their agreement is now over. Clint’s emotions, his feelings for the kid, don’t _matter_.

They don’t matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not perfect, and it's a little short, but here's an update, finally. 
> 
> You know the drill: go vote in my [poll](https://forms.gle/C9vhMvw2vutDcx8x6) so I know what to work on next. I’ll update the choices after 50 votes.
> 
> This chapter took so long to write, and I’m so sorry for the delay in getting it posted. Work has me _exhausted_ , friends. And I’ve got some family issues going on too. But the end is in sight. How are y’all feeling about this story coming to a close?


	8. Chapter 8

It’s been thirty days since the contract ended (not that Clint’s counting, because he’s _not_ \- it’s just easy to notice when a month has passed). Thirty days, and just as many new, rejected contracts, because signing his name on any one of them felt like a betrayal to something Clint’s not sure he ever even had. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s supid, but he still forwards the next contract he sees to Steve with a note that says _this seems more up your alley_ , even though Steve’s alley is currently Bucky.

He needs a reset, he thinks. Maybe some time off will do him good: get the kid out of his head, make him stop worrying and wondering and _fantasizing_. He hates to describe it like that. _Fantasy_ sounds dirty, sounds wrong. Maybe _dreaming_ is a better word, except Clint’s not a princess in a tower, okay? He doesn’t dream about people.

He dreams about Pietro, though. About pale hair and red-bitten lips, about quiet sighs and quick, sarcastic remarks. He daydreams, too, idly, sitting at his desk, about alabaster skin under his fingertips, about a gaze filled with implicit trust.

Thirty-one days after the contract ends, Clint takes some time off. A week, which barely dips into the reserve of time off he’s earned. But he hopes it’ll be enough time to get his damn head on straight.

He’s only been awake for twenty minutes or so when there’s a knock on his door. Groaning, Clint hoists himself to his feet. Stark cleared his time off, but Clint wouldn’t put it past him to drop by, to “check in,” and in the process try to convince Clint that he doesn’t really need the time off. It’s not malicious, and it’s not like Stark is that money-hungry - he just thinks that work fixes all problems.

Clint runs a hand through his hair before he goes to the door, trying to make himself a little more presentable. “I have the week off,” he says, as he opens the door, but the ending of the phrase trails off as he sees who, exactly, is on his porch.

The kids look travel-weary and dirty and all but dead on their feet, and Wanda's leaning against her brother like she's afraid she won't be able to keep herself erect. They’ve got bags under their eyes, the both of them, and Pietro looks thinner in the cheeks. They’re a mess, and certifications and ages aside, they are just kids, the pair of them. Clint remembers being 21 and excited about the world, not run ragged and scarred from escaping from a hellhole of a home.

If only because he'd dealt with that years earlier. 

“Hey,” he says, when neither of the twins make a move to do anything. He shakes his head, trying to clear some of the fog that shock has brought on. “Hey, come on in. What happened?”

Pietro huffs, a frustrated, sour noise, and shoots Wanda a look. “She made me _wait_ ,” he says, and Wanda looks suitable subdued, almost guilty. Clint blinks. 

“Wait?” he repeats. 

Wanda shrugs one shoulder. “He wanted to go to you immediately after his test,” she says. “Considering the… _circumstances_ of your relationship, I thought it would be wise to have a cooling-down period. For both of you.”

For a moment, Clint sees Nat standing there in front of him instead, _hears_ her, too, because that’s definitely something she would say. It’s logical and rational and Clint feels like an idiot for not thinking about it himself, for not _suggesting_ it himself. 

Clint sighs. “That was an incredibly smart and mature thing to do,” he says, and both the twins look at him: Wanda, with grateful smile, and Pietro, with an annoyed frown. “But that doesn’t explain why you two...” He gestures at them, looking for the right word. “What happened?”

“Strucker thought it was ‘time for us to leave’,” Wanda says, carefully.

“He kicked us out after my certification,” Pietro clarifies. “Said he’d been providing for us for long enough.” He pauses, biting his lip. “We’ve been at a shelter. I hoped… I know it is a lot to ask, but we don’t have anywhere else to go, and…”

They’re still standing in the doorway, Clint realizes, the three of them. Clint hasn’t stepped aside, even though he invited them in earlier. “Christ,” he says under his breath. He knew Strucker was an ass, but he didn’t expect the guy to kick the twins out.

“Of course you can stay here,” he says, when he realizes that he hasn’t answered Pietro's question yet. “The both of you. You're more than welcome. Hey, c'mere.” He steps backward, letting the twins come in, and then wraps his arms around both of them, tucking them in close. Wanda goes willingly enough, happy to have someone else to lean on, but Pietro shifts to tuck himself up under Clint's arm and hide his face against his neck and breathe him in. He's trembling, faintly, and fuck, Clint can only imagine what he's been through over the past month.

“You should have called,” he murmurs into Pietro's hair. “I could have helped. Nat could have helped. You didn’t have to do that all by yourselves.”

Pietro makes a noise, and Clint just kisses his hair. Stories and explanations can come later - right now, he’s worried about the drop Pietro is no doubt experiencing, about whatever hell the twins have been through in the past few days. He’s worried about getting them _okay_ again. 

He pulls back after a moment, but Pietro stays firmly pressed against his side, even as Wanda puts space between them. “There’s only one shower, but there should be enough hot water for two runs. I’ll order some pizza - that all right with you two?”

Wanda look at him for a moment, and Clint’s reminded of the way she looked at him the first time they met, sharp and assessing. He knows she’s trying to figure him out, trying to determine his motivations, because she’s protective of her brother and protective of herself, and it’s easier to predict what someone might do when you know the why behind their actions. Whatever conclusion she comes to, it must be good, because she nods and turns towards the bathroom. “No onions!” she calls, and against Clint’s side, Pietro snorts. 

Clint puts the order in quickly, and Pietro doesn’t leave his side the entire time. The older man is grateful that Wanda took the first shower, because it gives him some time alone with the kid, to talk, to get a feel for what kind of headspace Pietro is in.

“Hey,” he murmurs, setting his phone down on the counter. Pietro stiffens slightly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I just want to talk.”

Pietro sighs. “I _don’t_ want to talk,” he says, but he still straightens a little, rolling his shoulders back. “We will not intrude for long, I promise.”

It’s Clint’s turn to roll his eyes before he leans in, pressing his forehead against Pietro’s. “You’re not intruding,” he says. “You’re welcome here. I want you here. I’ve been missing you for a month, sweetheart - if I’m being honest, I kind of don’t ever want you to leave.”

Pietro looks up, frowning. “You missed me?” he asks, and there’s enough genuine surprise in his voice to make Clint’s heart break a little. He didn’t think he’d been that good at keeping his feelings under wraps, but a month was a long time. Maybe Pietro thought he’d forgotten, or moved on. 

“I haven’t taken another contract since yours,” he says. “It’s starting to piss my boss off, but I can’t… I couldn’t. I kept thinking about you.”

Pietro opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, but at that moment, Wanda emerges from the bathroom, her hair wrapped up in one towel and other folded tightly around her body. “Clothes?” she asks, and Clint’s priority becomes finding the other Dom something to wear besides the terry cloth, while Pietro pops into the shower himself. 

Clint’s not slim, and he certainly doesn’t have the curves that Wanda does, but he manages to find an old pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt for her to wear, at least until they can go to the store. He tells her this, and then raises a hand to silence her when she protests. 

“You’re going to let me help, all right? That includes clothes, and food, and whatever else you two need while you’re getting back on your feet.” He pauses. “There’s only the one spare bedroom, but I can sleep on the couch until…”

Wanda shakes her head. “I’ve been watching him pine for a month,” she says. “I don’t need to see what you look like when you’re longing for someone, too. I will take the spare bedroom, and Pietro can share with you.” She looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you don’t plan to seek out a more permanent contract with him?”

It’s a call-out. An opportunity for Clint to deny it, to say he just wants to help, that he’s not interested in the kid in any way other than would be strictly professional. But that would be a lie, and Wanda doesn’t deserve to be lied to - _Pietro_ doesn’t deserve to be lied to.

“Not immediately,” he says after a moment, because that is the truth. “He needs to experience freedom, outside of someone else’s control.”

Wanda looks thoughtful. “And if he brings it up? If he asks you?”

Clint shrugs one shoulder, making a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I don’t have a good track record for telling him no.”

Wanda sighs, but then she smiles, and the gesture seems genuine enough. “I trust that you’re not going to hurt him on purpose,” she says, “and I do believe you have his best interests at heart. But if you do hurt him, if you _mean_ to hurt him…”

“I’d expect you to give me exactly what I deserve,” Clint finishes for her. “There would a line of people waiting to fuck me up, starting with you and Nat, and probably ending with Pietro himself.”

Almost despite herself, Wanda laughs, a small, sharp sound. “You are right,” she says, and moves to tie Clint’s overly large shirt around her waist. “And you are a good man. I trust you to be good to him.”

With that, she turns on her heel and leaves Clint’s bedroom. Clint thinks, a little absently, that he doesn’t _need_ her approval, that Pietro’s his own man, but it still eases some of the tension in his chest. Wanda has Pietro’s best interests in mind, truly, and if she thinks Clint will be good for him…

The doorbell interrupts Clint’s musings, and he hurries to the door to pay the delivery boy. He tips too much, but he’s feeling generous and doesn’t care much past getting food on the table for the twins. And the whole time, Wanda’s words roll around in his head. _I trust you to be good to him_. He wonders, briefly, if she was involved in any of Pietro’s failed contracts. 

He sets the pizzas down before returning to his bedroom to grab a change of clothes for Pietro, and he pointedly doesn’t think about the kid wearing his stuff. Doesn’t think about Pietro in the shower, either, using Clint’s shampoo and shower gel, how he’s going to come out smelling like mahogany and moss.

“Food’s here!” he calls, and distracts himself by taking a too-large bite of pizza himself. 

Wanda pokes her head out of the spare bedroom, and emerges just long enough to pile a few slices of pizza on a plate before retreating back into the bedroom. Clint hears the lock _click_ into place and doesn’t feel offended - God knows the last time either of them actually had any privacy. 

A few minutes later, Pietro comes out of the bathroom, wearing the clothes Clint set out for him. Clint doesn’t do a comical double-take, or choke on the mouthful of food, but he does _look_ for a moment, at the way the kid has cinched the shorts around his waist, how the shirt hangs on his frame, loose and baggy. He looks smaller, younger, and guilt pulls at Clint’s chest even though he knows that looking, wanting, isn’t wrong.

“Come eat, kid,” he says, pulling a chair out from the table. But Pietro just shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Not hungry,” he replies. “Can I… I’m really tired. Can I just go to bed?”

He’s asking permission, and Clint realizes he’s _actually_ asking, like Clitn saying ‘no’ is an option. The older man sighs, running a hand through his hair, and then says, “Sweetheart, you can do whatever you want. If you’re tired, then go to bed. I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge if you want them later, okay?”

Pietro nods, and his shoulders relax a little. “You better not try to sleep on the couch,” he says. “It’s been a _month_.”

Clint doesn’t have a chance to answer before Pietro turns and goes into the bedroom, but the snarky comment has him smiling, relieved. Pietro’s okay - he’s okay with sassing Clint, he’s okay with the sleeping situation, and he’s okay with _them_. They’ll have to have more conversations, and outline a formal contract, but it’s going to be okay.

Clint puts the still-hot food in the fridge, and then goes to the bedroom. Pietro's lying on his bed when he walks in, hair still damp and sticking up at odd angles. He looks exhausted, but he's obviously fighting to stay awake, though Clint can't figure out why. Going over to the bed, he slides in next to the kid and draws him in close, so that Pietro's more or less laying over his chest. 

“You're safe,” he murmurs, gently running his fingers through the kid's wet hair. “You can relax. You made it. You're safe. You're here, with me, and you're okay. Wanda is too.”

Pietro lets out a long, shuddering breath, and some of the tension drains out of his body. “There you go,” Clint says, letting approval seep into his voice. He doesn't want to send the kid down, not right now, but some well-placed praise might help him relax enough to get him to sleep. “Don't worry. I've got you now.”

“Yours?” Pietro asks, quietly, uncertainly, and Clint flashes back to the first time Pietro asked that, on his knees and come-drunk, with his cock hard and jutting up against his stomach. It was the same tone then, too, uncertainty mixed with worry, like there was even a possibility that Clint wouldn't want him. The older man swallows a little, and then nods.

“Yeah, sweetheart. That's right. All mine.”

The kid finally settles all the way, nuzzling into his chest, and Clint feels an overwhelming surge of affection for him. Ducking his head down, he kisses the wet, white hair, and then wraps his arms that much tighter around Pietro's back. “I've got you,” he murmurs, and gently strokes his hand up and down Pietro's back until he falls asleep, still curled tightly against Clint’s side.

And if something settles a little inside Clint Barton's chest, well, that's between him and his submissive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to new adventures now. Wanna get notified about every ill-imagined story I decide to post on here? SUBSCRIBE. I get so stupidly excited about subscribers, you have no idea. Love you all, and thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. Please [vote](https://forms.gle/Jo3yf3xnsrmcjqGZ8)!
> 
> EDIT: You selected "Behave (Abnormally)" as the next fic in the queue, with 41% of the votes! "Behave (Abnormally)" is an Umbrella Academy Diego/Klaus omegaverse fic, the first of a 4-part series. Choices have been updated once again!


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